


By the Rivers Dark

by runrarebit



Series: Altered Trajectory [5]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Ableism, Ableist Language, Angst, As Max said in Bird on the Wire, Bad Decisions, Billy gets jealous, Billy has issues with masculine authority, Billy only likes a very select few people, Billy's issues with men, Billy's main superpower is denial even with the whole monster thing, Billy's unrecognised feelings getting in the way of people realising how awesome Robin is, Blasphemy, Child Abuse, Communication Failure, Did I mention horrible family members, Domestic Violence, Dyslexic Steve Harrington, Failure to notice the obvious in more ways than one, Fucking Neil Hargrove, Homophobic Language, I mean it, I want to put something here but it would be spoilers, I'm trying not to get too ahead of myself this time, Lack of Communication, M/M, Max assuming Steve having a girlfriend is going to make Billy annoying so not being cool with it, Max is a wakeup to you Billy, Mike is a mess, Monumentally slow burn I am so sorry but we are getting there, Multi, Parental failure, People assuming Robin is Steve's girlfriend, Pining, Probably best to make sure all your Billys are accounted for, Robin is too, Secrets, Sexist Language, Slow Burn, Steve Cooks, Steve and Robin are BFFs, Steve failing to acknowledge the obvious in different ways to Billy, Steve's creepy weird gross pool, Steve's horrible family members, Summary may change, Terrible Parents, There's the whole monster thing, Thoroughly aware bisexual Steve Harrington, Tommy H.'s continued homophobic freakout, Trust Issues, Underage Drinking, Voluntelling, You should always expect to be trapped in a secret Russian base, bad hetero sex, because in more ways than one, emotional/psychological child abuse, internalized ableism, just offensive language in general, mentions of cronenbergian monstrosities, obliviously bisexual Billy Hargrove, ok yeah powers, so much smoking, steve has a crush, tags will change, though I am looking at you here Billy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 16:48:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 44
Words: 108,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20709323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runrarebit/pseuds/runrarebit
Summary: Billy based sequel toBird on the Wire.So Billy survived and now everything's- Well, he has no idea what'll happen next. But it's all good, isn't it? It's all behind him. He can move on- even with the weird marks on his body and his damaged car- At least for the latter there's a newly unemployed Steve Harrington hanging around, wanting to be helpful, and willing to drive him where he needs to go.PLEASE READ AUTHOR'S NOTE OF CHAPTER 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For homophobic/sexist/ableist language and references to child abuse and domestic violence as well as unsafe driving and body horror. As always please tell me if I miss any.
> 
> I am so tired right now but I really want to get this first part out now, while I have the time, so I am doing my best to remain coherent. Thank you all so much for reading the other fics in the series and letting me know you wouldn't mind reading more- so here's the more. The start of it anyway. Aiming to get the next bit out next weekend- I'll be a bit busy through October to the start of November so might not be able to find the time to write as much/post as often/reply as soon as I'd like, but I'm hoping you'll all put up with it.

He sleeps like the dead the moment his body touches the mattress.

The next thing he’s aware of is Max bellowing at him to wake up, which he does, and then him blinking up at the ceiling, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the bleary morning light as she’s saying _Susan just left without giving her breakfast, **again**, and she’s **hungry** and she wanted to make sure he wasn’t dead since he slept for **like twenty-four hours.**_

‘I know there’s cereal Maxine,’ he tells her.

‘Yeah there’s cereal,’ is her reply as she stands over him and peers down at him like a little _creep_, ‘but there’s no _milk_— and I’m not trying it with orange juice again. It’s fucking _gross_.’

He sits up, making her step backwards. ‘What do you mean there’s no milk? Why the fuck is there no milk?’

‘I don’t know,’ she whines. ‘I guess no one bought any, or any, like, _bread_, or more waffles, while we were, you know—’ she frowns, face falling, obviously _remembering_.

‘Fine, yes, ok,’ he sighs, wanting to get that look off her face. ‘We will go get some milk and shit. _But_, I’m having a shower first.’ About all he could manage the morning before on his way to bed was stripping his jeans off. It’s been— _fuck_. Way too long since he bathed.

He’s not even going to _think_ about his hair.

‘You are pretty gross,’ she says with an authoritative nod. Yeah, well, apparently even _pretty gross_ Harrington thinks he smells good—

‘Billy, you ok?’ she says, peering at him, ‘Have you malfunctioned or something?’

‘Fuck off Max,’ he says, shaking himself out of— whatever that was.

‘Don’t be a dick,’ is her response as she flounces out of his room. ‘And hurry up! Unless you _want_ to be drinking _black coffee_?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with black coffee,’ he grumbles, except, of course, he hates the way it tastes. And he fucking _dares _anyone to call him a pussy because of that.

He feels— actually, physically he feels absolutely _fine_. He feels _good. _He feels like he could go for a twenty-mile run and then surf all afternoon without breaking a sweat— if there was somewhere to surf. Which there’s not. Because fucking _Hawkins Indiana_.

Almost bouncing on the balls of his feet he grabs a pair of briefs and his towel and pads to the bathroom, stripping only once the door’s shut. When he has his own place he’s going to wander around naked whenever he wants without worrying he’ll flash his dick at her or Susan or, heaven fucking forbid, _Neil_.

Today is going to be a good day. He just knows it. Evil defeated, still alive, his dad hardly home— fuck. He should ring the pool, see if he still has a job— _later_. Feed Max first.

Fuck does he feel _good_. It’s like waking up after the first proper night’s sleep in _months_. As he reaches into the shower to turn it on he freezes, eyes catching on— _‘Shit_!’ he hisses, stepping back into the light of the window and staring down at himself.

In the light his skin doesn’t look right. There’s faint, silvery lines in places there shouldn’t be faint, silvery lines. Like scars. Real _old_ scars, and faded even beyond what old scars fade into, faded so much he doesn’t think it’d be that noticeable unless the person looking knows what he looks like and knows he doesn’t look like _that_— except where he was shot— and on his ankle, where he was first _grabbed._ There the scar tissue— or whatever it is— is much, _much_ more obvious, the rest of it— It might be faint but it’s _everywhere_. He looks in the mirror and he can see it there, on his _face_. Irregular and swirling and marbled and like—

All of a sudden he remembers coming _apart_. Body shifting, morphing, swirling out of his _his_ shape—

He gags, skin flushing hot for a second before suddenly he’s cold and shaky and not sure if he’s about to puke or faint.

He can’t prove it, but he thinks those lines are where his body _put itself back together_.

‘Billy!’ Max’s voice drags him back to the here and now, ‘Stop jacking off to your own reflection and have a shower! I’m _hungry_.’

What’s he going to do now? Just, like, wear a long-sleeved shirt forever? How fucking _lame. _He yelps out a laugh. _Fuck_.

Fuck it. He’ll worry about it _later_.

He’s got more important things to worry about anyway. Because he might feel fine but he looks like _shit_, and there’s no way he’s leaving the house until he at least fixes his _hair_.

In the shower he scrubs himself quickly, taking no pleasure in the warm water and getting clean. A kind of nausea is clinging to him, making him jumpy, making his hands twitch away from his own flesh. There’s even a marbled little swirl of silver across his _dick_. Fuck. Fucking _yuck_. Did his _dick_ come apart last night? How the fuck’s a guy supposed to deal with _that_?

Surprisingly he feel a bit better once he’s dry and dressed— but maybe that’s just the familiar fire of irritation rising at Maxine’s fucking _nagging_ that he hurry up when he’s trying to get his hair to lay right. ‘I swear to God Max, if you don’t quit it you are going to _regret it_ the next time you’re trying to make yourself pretty for fucking _Sinclair_!’ he ends up snarling, which makes her snarl back about not needing to get _pretty_ for Lucas because he’s smart enough to know how good he’s got it. ‘Doesn’t stop you trying on everything in your closet twice over though, does it?’ he points out after finally spraying his curls in place. Yeah. He looks good. A bit— _off_— but _good_.

‘That’s _rich_—’ she begins, following him out of the house, before they both just _stop_. Oh. Yeah, that’s right. Well, at least the military must have towed his car here while he was sleeping. ‘Jesus _Christ_, what did you _do_?’ she bleats, staring at his poor baby.

‘Something seriously fucking stupid,’ are the words he finds slipping out. ‘Oh my fucking _God_, I could have broken Harrington’s _neck_.’

‘_Steve?_’ she bleats, whipping her head around to stare at him. ‘What did you do to Steve? If you _hurt _him—’

‘I didn’t fucking _hurt_ Harrington,’ he snarls, feeling oddly _wounded_. ‘It’s just—’ his eyes go back to the damage, the way the front of his baby is crumpled in. ‘He was in the car when I hit the mini Mind Flayer lurking around outside the mall. That’s _all_.’

‘That better be _all_,’ she mutters. ‘Anyway, I’ll go call him—’

‘What?’ He snaps, ‘to make sure I didn’t do anything else to him?’

‘No,’ she says, meaning _idiot_, ‘We need a _ride—_ and since the mall’s been wrecked he must be out of a job— so—’

‘It still _works_,’ he points out. ‘Fucking _Wheeler_ stole it last night, remember?’

She gives him a _look_. ‘Are you wanting to get pulled over by Hopper or something? Jealous you didn’t get to meet him properly? Because you’re more likely to get one of the other ones and El says Hopper says they’re idiots a lot of the time.’

‘_No_ I’m—’ he shudders. Nope. Now she’s just reminded him the Chief of Police wanted to talk to him about how he knows all this stuff that’s a danger to the man’s _kid_. ‘Fine. Whatever. Ring Harrington. We’ll get him to drop us off at the garage so I can arrange to get the car fixed—’ he doesn’t know the garage’s number and his dad has taken to keeping the phonebooks in his car for whatever fucked up reason— actually, probably to make it harder for Susan to arrange things behind his back in case she decides to run off like his mom did.

Max snorts out a laugh. ‘You do not know him, like, _at all_, do you?’

‘What does that mean?’ he demands, following her back into the house. ‘_Maxine_. What does that mean? Fucking _answer_—’

She whirls to face him and gives him a real weird look— kind of _challenging _or whatever— and then says, ‘I am going to tell him we need to go get groceries after you get your car sorted out, and he is going to drive us there, and then, I don’t know, buy us lunch or something, and then ask us if we need to be driven anywhere else, and then volunteer to drive us even if we could walk or skate or ride our bikes, because underneath all the, whatever, _pretend apathy **bullshit**_, he is an amazingly helpful loser that likes doing stuff for people and it’s easier to go along with it than argue, because arguing makes him get this _look_ on his face and is worse than kicking a puppy. So don’t be a _dick_ to him, ok?’

He doesn’t know what to say to that so he just wanders back outside and leaves her to it, taking the opportunity to have a smoke and pop the hood on his baby, to see what damage there is to the engine. Not much. Mainly body work to be done—

He really must get some more cigarettes while he’s out—

For a moment the smell of the smoke blends with the smell of Harrington’s cologne in his memory and it’s like he could just reach out, _take_ the lit cigarette the guy is handing to him, the two of them in his car, driving—

‘He said he needs groceries too,’ Max’s voice breaks through, makes him look over at her in time to hear her say, ‘and then said “we’ll be right over”— Who do you think “we” is? I bet it’s Dustin.’

It’s not Dustin. When Harrington’s burgundy beemer rolls up it’s with _Robin_ in the passenger seat. ‘Is that the girl that works at Scoops Ahoy?’ Max asks as Harrington is parking. ‘What’s _she _doing here?’ She sounds almost as annoyed as he is to see the girl. Just what he needs, fucking _killjoy_ bitching at him about smoking all the fucking time—

‘She was with us in the Russian base, helped crack the code apparently,’ he answers, voice coming out more gruff than he intended. He clears his throat. ‘She’s Harrington’s girlfriend or something.’

‘No way,’ Max says, looking from the beemer to him and back again. ‘No _way_. Oh my _God_—’ whatever she was about to say gets bitten off as Harrington rolls down his window.

‘Do you two want to hop in the back?’ the guy asks. ‘Garage first?’

‘Yeah,’ he replies, flicking the cigarette butt into the gutter and opening the door for Max to climb in first so he’s sitting behind Harrington. Inside he gets a better look at the guy’s face and sucks in a breath at the way the bruises are darkening. ‘Your face looks like shit— _ow_. Fucking _what_ Max?' he snaps as she elbows him viciously in the ribs.

‘Don’t be a _dick_,’ she hisses viciously, then, louder, ‘Hi, I’m _Max_,’ to Robin, sounding surprisingly _hostile_. He glances at her, surprised. Just because he doesn’t like the girl much— funny, he would have thought Max would think a weird chick like her was pretty cool.

‘Robin,’ she replies, and he sees her glance nervously at Harrington and sees the way the guy frowns. If the brunet is going to give them shit just because neither of them like his lame girlfriend—

He feels a sudden surge of affection for Max.

Because he’s trying to be good or something, or at least not a _dick_, he doesn’t light another cigarette. Harrington’s doing them a favour after all, and the guy could just as easily chuck him out of the car if he pisses off the guy’s girlfriend.

Still feels weird that Harrington has a girlfriend. Guy’s been existing in a state of about-to-be-dumped->dumped->single ever since he met him. It seems kind of— _unnatural_.

He watches Harrington’s hands on the wheel as the guy pulls away from the kerb and heads towards the garage. He’s a better driver than he would have thought, calm, confident— _safe_. Still, he’s never liked being driven by someone else. It always feels best when it’s _his_ hands on the wheel. He put up with it when he was teaching Max, because she might argue with him, but he knows she knows better than to do something stupid and get them both killed, but anyone _else_—

Not just because he can remember his parents having some pretty fucking _nasty_ fights in the car. His dad behind the wheel, car veering all over the road, no one’s eyes but his up ahead, and the times when the old man would suddenly lash out, smack his mom _hard_ across the face, and all he could think was they were all about to die and his mom crying and bleeding and snarling at the man who had just hurt her would be the last thing he ever saw—

He sucks in a breath, bringing with it the scent of Harrington’s cologne. Yeah. Ok. It’s ok. It’s Harrington. The guy hardly has the balls to drive like a lunatic—

Anyway, fucking _Neil_ aside, he’s not sure he likes this. It’d be better if he was driving, Harrington in the passenger seat, and Max— _Robin_ too, if that’s the way it had to be— in the back. Cigarette between his lips of course.

Harrington makes small talk while he drives, chattering on about nothing much in particular. After a while he starts to sounds kind of— _strained_. But that may just be because no one is responding that much. Even Robin is staring out the passenger window like she wishes she was somewhere else.

_Why_ though? Shouldn’t she be happy? She’s safe. They’re all safe— and she gets to hang around with her boyfriend with no one expecting them to wear stupid outfits or sling ice-cream. Kind of _ungrateful_ if you ask him, especially since Harrington’s trying so hard.

‘What groceries do you need?’ he asks, interrupting the nervous flow of bullshit from between Harrington’s lips. That’s a safe topic, isn’t it? That’s not being a _dick_.

This redirects— but doesn’t stop— the bullshit, which wasn’t quite what he was after, but— ‘I wonder if the supermarket will even be open,’ Max muses from next to him. ‘Oh my God. I wonder if we’ll be in _trouble_—’

‘What are you talking about?’ he demands, and then remembers hunting them to it, the puddle of El’s blood— He shivers in the heat of the car.

‘We kind of broke into it last night—’ she winces. ‘I hope Hopper isn’t mad.’

‘Why don’t you fill us in on what we missed?’ Harrington suggests, ‘While we were, you know, fighting _Russians_.’

‘Getting captured, beaten, and then _running away _from Russians you mean?’ Robin says with a fond smirk at Harrington, ‘Not to mention—’ she trails off, her eyes meeting his in the rear-view mirror. Was she about to say _shot_? He glares, hoping she can read the words “You’re not fucking Max up with that shit” in his gaze.

‘I fought one,’ Harrington points out. ‘I even _won_. Also Billy—’ he trails off too. For _fuck’s sake_. The brunet clears his throat, ‘And if I’m remembering right Billy dealt with that mad doctor, so—’

‘Ok, you’re right, Russians were fought,’ the girl says.

‘We fought Russians too,’ Max pipes up. ‘Or, you know, _Russian_.’ She then starts telling them what happened to the kids while he was gone.

Pretty much no surprises. Swap out him for the Russian, add a few extra uses of El’s powers when she was looking for him and Steve, subtract the time he _reached_ for her in that other place, trapped and terrified her, told her _why, _and replace it with the Mind Flayer using the Russian’s ability to track people to follow them back to Hopper’s cabin and there you have it. Stupidity at its finest.

He told El to _rest_. He _told her_—

Though of course she wasn’t going to with everyone relying on her. At least Max seems a little— _something_ about their reckless use of her friend’s powers.

He’s going to have to have a _talk_ with Wheeler and Byers Sr. It seems they were the closest thing to a “responsible adult” hanging around the moment he was out of the picture, and to him it doesn’t seem like they were living up to the title.

Poor kid. He’ll have to take her for waffles or something. _Just her_, the others don’t deserve being rewarded for being a bunch of little shitbrains.

Though maybe Harrington or someone should come too, because it might seem kinda _weird_ if he’s taking some kid he’s not even related to out for breakfast— though maybe Harrington _and_ him wouldn’t look good either. Two older guys and a fourteen-year-old girl. Yeah, ok, _Max_ can come too. But she’s not getting a milkshake.

He just knows there’s going to be trouble when Harrington pulls up outside the garage. The guy there— older guy, beer belly beneath his stained t-shirt, sneer showing teeth yellow from smoke and coffee— seems to take one look at him and decide he’s some dumb, sack of shit kid, that’s probably wrecked his car speeding into something.

He feels himself tense up, head going up— He bets the guy is going to try and charge him more than the work’s worth, will try and convince him there’s more wrong with his baby than there is— if this old bastard thinks he can pull one over on him—

‘_Oh Jesus_,’ he hears Max whisper and wonders if she’s agreeing with him about this old guy.

Yeah, Things aren’t going well. Even just arranging for the car to be towed to the garage so the guy can have a look at her and he can feel the judgement radiating towards him in waves. Also it’s Hawkins Indiana, there’s no reason it has to be later in the day or tomorrow— who the fuck else needs their car towed?— _and_—

He is going to lose his temper.

A warm, pleasant smelling presence gently nudges him back with a hand planted on his chest. ‘Hi, Mr. Duvall.’

‘Steve Harrington!’ the old guy says, a smile cracking across his unfriendly face. ‘You taking care of that beauty of a BWM?’

‘Of course, Sir.’ the brunet replies. A bit of meaningless small talk ensues, boring, but it’s interesting to watch the way Harrington winds this old bastard around his little finger, makes him soften up, that hard, judgemental edge smoothing away.

Before he even realises what’s happening Harrington is pushing him back away from the garage, _gentle, so very gentle_, and saying something like, ‘Why don’t you go get some cigarettes? I’ll deal with this. I _promise_ I’ll get it sorted out, ok?’

And, for whatever stupid fucking reason, he agrees, taking out a smoke and puffing at it while he stalks past Robin and Max lurking near the beemer and down the street towards the 7-11.

He buys a carton of Marlboros from the indifferent girl behind the counter. She’s hot enough to warrant one of his more charming smiles and leaning over to flirt with her for a bit— not that she seems to notice— but he doesn’t linger that long. He feels like he should get back to Harrington.

When he saunters back the old guy seems a hell of a lot friendlier. ‘Steve here told me you were at Starcourt last night,’ the man says as he approaches, ‘Brave thing you did, young man, getting your sister out like that.’

_What_?

The brunet’s expression is pretty much screaming _play along_— Has Harrington been talking him up this old man? _Why_? Whatever the reason it’s not too much of a lie, so he shrugs, ‘Yeah, well—’ all noncommittal.

Anyway, turns out Harrington has arranged to have his car towed later that day and fixed as soon as possible, whenever whatever parts that need ordering in arrive if it’s more than a panel beating job. The old man, Mr. Duvall, will ring him later, once he’s had a look at the car, but the prices that get mentioned are a hell of a lot cheaper than he expected, so there’s that. They even shake on it, him and the old man. _Weird_. Old guys generally don’t like him much.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For the usual homophobic/misogynistic language, and this time for oblique mentions of what could be interpreted as child sexual abuse- but in the past and not happening to anyone in Hawkins- as always please let me know if I've missed any.
> 
> I don't have long right now to get this posted so if the chapter notes are a bit rushed I hope you'll forgive me. Here we go, another chapter- in which Max very carefully has to *not* say a bunch of things she thinks. Poor Max. She is not stupid. Thank you all for the comments and kudos on the first chapter, and for reading it, and I hope you all enjoy this one too!

When they’re all back in the car Harrington turns and looks back at them and suggests ‘Breakfast? I feel like coffee, does anyone else want coffee?— then we can go to the Big Buy.’

He’s about to say something about not needing any fucking _coffee_, but then he remembers what Max said earlier and a glance at her tells him she’s about to elbow him viciously again if he doesn’t play along. ‘Yeah, coffee sounds good.’ Which it does, actually.

Harrington drives them all to the diner where he took Max and El— Harrington and Robin sitting on one side of the booth, him and Max on the other— which prompts Max into a round of nagging for waffles and a milkshake and a bunch of chatter about coming back here soon with El. Robin decides on waffles too— in a way that suggests to him that she might be trying to get on Max’s good side or something. He’s just going to have a coffee, but then Harrington is chattering away about the pancakes they make here and makes them sound so good he ends up ordering a plate too.

He doesn’t get it. He knows— he _remembers_— that he doesn’t get on with the brunet, but somehow the guy is just making everything so— _easy_ today.

Harrington’s— actually, he thinks maybe Harrington really is a good guy. A bit— _cold? Aloof? **Something** _sometimes, but actually a good guy. Seems to have warmed up real nice to him now.

It’s kind of— Fuck, his thoughts feel scattered. Strange. But it’s almost _sweet,_ or something stupid and faggy like that, watching the way the guy is chattering to Max and Robin, trying to include them both, encourage them, asking Max about shit even _he _doesn’t know about.

The coffee’s the same as last time, good, and the pancakes are nice and light and fluffy and all that, but his stomach sours as he watches Robin steal a bite from Harrington’s plate with easy familiarity. He has no idea why that girl annoys him like she does, but she seems to annoy Max too, because his step-sister makes this quiet little grunting _growl_ in the base of her throat as Harrington smiles at the chick.

_Does Max have a crush on Harrington_?

A quick glance at her, at the way she’s looking at the brunet— No. He doesn’t think so. It must just be— _fuck knows_. Robin just rubs the both of them up the wrong way.

‘These are good,’ the girl in question is saying, ‘but oh my God they are _nowhere_ near as good as those crepes you made. Jesus Steve, we should get a food cart or something and set up in the middle of town, I swear in an hour we’d make more than we did in a _day_ at Scoops.’

‘_Crepes_?’ Max demands before he gets a chance to. ‘What crepes?’

‘He makes crepes,’ Robin says, pointing a loaded fork at the guy in question. ‘Didn’t you know he makes crepes?’ she looks over at the brunet, ‘Didn’t you tell any of the weird children that hang around you that you can cook?’

Harrington shrugs a little, a kind of bitter twist coming over his face. ‘I haven’t really felt like cooking recently—’

She kind of bumps her whole body against the brunet and gives the guy a _look_, soft and intimate and affectionate and the sort of thing _he _doesn’t feel like he should be looking at. Harrington smiles back and then looks away, seeming almost _embarrassed_.

Max breaks the sudden, awkward silence. Thank fuck. ‘Do you think I could get in on this crepe action?’ she says, ‘And maybe El. I don’t think she’s ever even had a crepe.’

‘Have _you_?’ he asks her. He thinks crepes might be a bit out of Susan’s league when it comes to cooking.

Her face kind of scrunches up. ‘My aunt Christie made them a few times—’ her voice gets smaller and smaller, ‘my uncle’s second wife— my dad’s brother. You know?’ She gives them all an awkward little smile. ‘They weren’t very good. Kind of— _rubbery_.’

‘Of course Max,’ Harrington says, looking all kinds of sympathetic. ‘Any time you and El want to come over— as long as I don’t have a job—’ the guy sighs. ‘I’ve really got to get another job—’ those brown eyes suddenly fix on _him_, ‘—and of course you can come over for crepes too, if you want?’ it’s said _nervously_.

The frown he sees flash across Robin’s face makes the sense of triumph he feels even sweeter, still, it’s not like he’s actually going to take the brunet up on that offer. ‘Yeah, maybe,’ he says with a shrug. Harrington looks away at that, something almost _sad_ in his gaze.

After they leave the diner they head to the Big Buy, which is surprisingly open— even if it does have a big piece of cardboard taped over the door. He’s not sure how it happens but they split up, Harrington going off with Robin, Max and him strolling the aisles together— him doing his best to reign her in from getting too much junk. It’s his money anyway, so he should get last say— not that she seems to agree.

‘You’ll rot your teeth,’ he tells her, putting back two of the three packets of cherry Twizzlers she apparently needs. ‘Anyway, thought we were here for breakfast stuff.’

‘We just _had_ breakfast,’ she points out.

‘What? You think Harrington’s going to take us out every morning?’

‘He probably would if we let him—’ she shrugs.

‘Ok, no,’ he stops, grabs her arm when she looks like she’s going to keep going and ignore him. ‘I get you saying he likes being helpful, but _don’t_ take advantage of him. He’s a _good guy_— and you gotta know I don’t say stupid shit like that lightly.’

She stares at him for a moment, before blinking rapidly and letting out a weird, bleat of a laugh. ‘Ok, _wow_. Um, yeah—’ she takes a deep breath. ‘I will not take advantage of Steve Harrington who is apparently so good a guy he’s even got _you_ acknowledging it—’

He’s not quite sure what to say to that, so he ignores it, just starts off in search of a loaf of bread in case someone wants toast or sandwiches or something.

‘What did happen—?’ she asks after a moment as she scurries to his side, ‘I mean, last night, with you and Steve?— or maybe not just _last night_— since you disappeared when you were going to get him?’

He shrugs. ‘Nothing really. He’s just— I don’t know. I got told a bunch of bullshit about him when we came to town and he wasn’t— I dunno— He’s a good guy Max,’ he feels a frown come over his face, his steps slowing. ‘Why didn’t I see that at first?’

She doesn’t answer for a long minute, and when he turns to look at her she looks as deadly serious as he’s ever seen her. As he watches she bites her lip, seems to be debating whether she should say whatever it is she’s thinking— ‘Come on, spit it out,’ he tells her.

She shrugs, looks away. ‘I don’t think you wanted to, that’s all—’

‘What does that mean?’ he demands.

She bites her lip again, flickering a glance at him before looking away. After a long moment she says, ‘You don’t really get on with other guys most of the time, yeah?’

‘I have friends—’ he defends himself. ‘—_had_ at least. Back in Cali—’

‘Yeah but they were either guys you knew since forever or they were—’ she shrugs again, clearly uncomfortable. ‘You remember Jay? I mean, of course you do— but you and him were hardly friends until that thing with his sister when you found out and offered to help him beat up his stepdad—’ she trails off.

The thing is—

Ok. _Fuck._ Yeah, she’s right. He just hopes she doesn’t say anything about how easy it’s been since he came to Hawkins not to even bother _trying_ to keep in touch.

He could make a big deal about it, go on about how hard it is to feel _connected _to other people— like there’s this glass wall between him and them that’s been there since the day his mom walked out— but it’s not quite true. Somehow Max has broken through, and El, and— yeah— kinda _Harrington_.

‘You’re not pissed at me?’ she asks, sounding nervous.

‘Nah, kid,’ he sighs. ‘But let’s stop talking about this shit, alright?’

‘Alright,’ she says with a decisive nod. ‘Come on, we need to get some Eggos. Now me and El are friends there’s no way I’m letting Mike hog her for the rest of summer.’

By the time they’re ready to go they’ve got bread, more coffee just in case, milk, more cereal also just in case, way too many boxes of Eggos, _eggs,_ ham, cheese, some tomatoes, some maple flavoured syrup, Max’s Twizzlers, Max’s assortment of other junk she doesn’t really need, and a bunch of bananas in case either of them feels like actually eating a fruit. A _fruit_ fruit, not, like, a _tomato_ fruit.

He really should ring the pool, make sure he still has a job. Yeah, he’s got some savings, but getting his baby fixed is going to eat into them, and —since it’s not like either Susan or Neil leaves money around for them to feed themselves while they’re off doing whatever it is the two of them are doing when they’re not working— it’s on his shoulders to keep both himself and Max fed.

Since he can see Max just wants to run off and find some more junk food he starts looking for Harrington to see if the guy’s ready to go.

He finds the brunet intently examining a pile of apples, Robin wrapped around him, one of her hands very, very, _very_ low on his back— almost on his ass.

He blinks.

From somewhere very far away he hears Max hiss out a breath.

Should he leave them be—? _He should leave them_. Yeah, he should— him and Max could walk home. It’s not that far—

Something must attract Robin’s attention, because all of a sudden she’s turning her head and looking at him, and part of him thinks _huh_, _that’s not the look of a girl feeling up her boyfriend, _because for a split second there’s something cruel there, cruel and taunting, but the moment her eyes meet his the expression switches to a thoughtful frown— and that’s the moment he realises she wasn’t looking at _Harrington_ when she was touching him, she was looking _past _him, so his own eyes follow the path hers originally had and he finds himself looking at fucking _Carol_.

She looks— _furious_. Face scrunched and ugly and shoulders up by her ears— in fact she looks about two seconds from stomping over and _smacking_ someone.

He frowns at her—

If he had to guess he’d say something else is going on that he doesn’t know about.

Confirmed, he’d say, when the sound of something being dropped drags his attention back to Harrington to see the guy just knocked a few apples off the stand and is now scrabbling around picking them up. Without thinking he goes over, squatting down next to the brunet and Robin, reaching for the fruit.

A glance at Harrington’s face and he can see something miserable and brittle there, and in the way the guy straightens up and so very _carefully_ puts the apples back. A moment later the brunet looks up, looks over to Carol— and _that_ is the least welcoming look he’s ever seen on Steve Harrington’s face.

Jesus fucking _Christ_, what the fuck did she do to him? She must have done something, not even _he_ ever earned a look like that back when he was all but riding the guy’s ass in the changing rooms, getting up in his face, giving him shit, even after he _beat him unconscious—_

He glances back at Carol, sees her pale, her lips between her teeth, then catches her gaze, sees something contemplative— before even more _fury_. A moment later a woman he’d guess was her mother starts nagging at her to stop dallying and she looks away as she goes to the woman’s side at the checkout. 

‘The fuck is her problem?’ he asks, though he doubts he’ll get an honest answer.

‘She’s a raging bitch,’ Robin replies.

Ok. So he was wrong. ‘No arguments from me.’

For a moment there he almost likes the girl, but then she gives Harrington another one of those full body nudges and the irritation returns. The guy’s a _guy_, no guy needs that much physical affection— especially not where people can _see_. It’s like she’s cutting his balls off right in front of _everyone_.

After they’ve each gone through the checkout— where Harrington buys a million-and-one fucking things, _Jesus Christ_— he dumps their bag of stuff in Max’s arms and has to help the other guy carry his stuff to the car. Fucking _eggs and flour and milk and cream and fruit and vegetables and dry pasta and_— guy seems to be doing the proper weekly household shopping, not just buying a bunch of stuff for himself. Isn’t this Mrs. Harrington’s job? Like, woman of the house shit? Who the fuck knows.

Once they’ve got the beemer loaded up with their combined domestic nonsense he leans against it and pulls out a cigarette, lighting up while ignoring the combined irritated sighs of Max and Robin. ‘I’m smoking this here or I’m smoking it in the car,’ he tells them, ‘but I’m fucking smoking it before I’m going anywhere else, so get the fuck _over _it.’

With almost mirroring noises of annoyance the two girls climb in the car, slamming both doors. Fucking _women_. A moment later Harrington drifts over, leaning against the car next to him. ‘Can I have one?’

He shrugs, getting the packet back out, ‘Sure.’

For a moment he’s tempted— for some fucking stupid reason— to suggest the guy light up off his, but he fights down the impulse and gets out his lighter, watching the way Harrington’s lashes fan over his cheeks as the guy leans in to light it.

They stand there for a moment in silence, before dark eyes flicker over to him. ‘You doing alright?’ Harrington asks, sounding wary. ‘After, _you know_.’

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he says reflexively, but then, for a moment, he _remembers_— and it’s like he can _feel it_. And it’s—

‘I’m not going to tell anyone, ok?’ Harrington says, _whispers _really. ‘And if you ever need to, I don’t know, _talk_ about it— I’ll try to help if I can.’

He glances at the guy sees _awkwardness_— but also, he thinks, sees that the brunet actually _means_ _it_ and everything he should say, all the ways he should cut the guy down for thinking he’s _weak_ like that, a pussy, fucking _broken_, don’t come to mind. All he can do is give Harrington a brief nod. Of course he’s got no intention of taking the guy up on the offer, but—

He flicks his cigarette butt into the gutter. ‘Better get the groceries home before the waffles melt or whatever.’

Harrington nods, scuffing his own out.

The drive back is— _weird_ or something? Harrington’s quiet, Robin’s looking worried, Max is looking at _him_ like he did something, but he didn’t do something, so she can fuck off, and he can’t help wonder what the brunet is thinking. _Did he do something? _He doesn’t think so— Is Harrington upset with him?

If Harrington’s upset with him over _nothing_—

All thoughts go out of his head when they pull up and he sees the _Chief of fucking **Police**_ lurking outside the front door.

‘Hopper?’ Harrington murmurs with a frown.

For a moment he’s tempted to tell the guy to just keep driving.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: for oblique references to child abuse, mainly in the context of Billy being unable to deal with male authority figures.
> 
> I managed to get this chapter finished, yay! I could ramble on about being tired again, but that's a bit boring, so instead I'm going to wish you all a lovely weekend, and hope you enjoy the fic, and then thank you all for reading and leaving comments and kudos, because it is true that I love getting them and so very true that I really love reading people's reactions to my writing!

He lights up a new cigarette as he gets out of the car and approaches the man, head up, shoulders back, trying to show respect but that he’s not just going to let some halfwit pig with fists the size of his head push him around. A moment later he hears car doors opening and then Max is scurrying to his side, Harrington appearing a moment later. ‘Hey Hopper!’ the brunet calls out, sounding friendly but a bit wary.

The man looks at them for a moment, the weight of his gaze shifting over each of them in turn, before fixing on him. ‘You and me need to have a talk.’

The words “fuck off” almost trip off his tongue, but he bites them down in favour of, ‘Of course— Sir.’

For whatever reason this makes the guy snort, a small smirk twitching around the corner of his mouth.

‘Is this about what Billy knows—?’ Harrington begins.

‘Just me and him, man to man,’ the man interjects, looking at the brunet then at Max. ‘I’m not here for a group therapy session.’

Max starts squawking objections, but it’s pretty much fucking _pointless_, so he gestures at her to shut it and then gestures for the cop to follow him into the backyard. If the guy’s going to start swinging he’d at least like the room to try and out manoeuvre him. Harrington grabs him as he moves past, leaning in to whisper in his ear. ‘Hopper’s a good guy,’ but it’s hardly convincing so he just shrugs the brunet’s grip off and marches on while trying to pretend it doesn’t feel like he’s going to his doom.

Fuck. He hopes the cop can’t see the weakness in him.

The _monster_.

Once they’re out there, standing on the patchy, shitty grass that he seems to always end up being the one mowing these days, he stops, turns and looks at the Chief. Fuck, the man is _big_. He reminds himself that big or not the guy doesn’t look anywhere near as fit as he is, so he should be able to keep out of his grip if shit turns nasty. ‘So what do you want to talk about?’

The guy gives him a _look_, then nods as if he’s just confirmed something the dick didn’t even have the courtesy of _asking_. Pissing him off. This is _pissing him off_. ‘Your sister and El told me what you told them, about how you found out about everything, but I want to hear it from _you_.'

He takes a deep breath, takes a moment to remember exactly what he said, and then repeats it while trying to vary the words enough it sounds _real. _That’s one of the ways they get you— or at least that’s what Josie used to say.

The Chief of Police nods as he talks, doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t give him _any_ signal as to how the man is taking his story. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_— no. Don’t panic. If he panics he’ll fuck up—

When he’s done Chief Hopper nods again, more decisively, then gestures at the cigarette burned down to ash between his fingers. ‘You got a spare?’

He looks at the thing, face scrunching up, before he flicks it away into the bushes. ‘Sure.’

Before taking another one for himself he hands one to the cop, watches the man light up with a cheery little yellow Bic before lighting his own with his Zippo. ‘Describe it for me,’ the man says on a lung full of smoke, ‘The _Upside Down_, or whatever it is the kids call it.’

He does, speaking of the ash or rot or whatever it is falling down in drifts, the darkness, the _wrong_ smell to the air, the lifeless feeling of it, the _dread_—

Chief Hopper nods again, flicking ash onto the dirt, then says, seemingly out of nowhere, ‘I’ve heard a lot of things about you, you want to guess how many of them are good?’

‘Not really,’ he replies, ‘— _Sir_.’

The man nods again— is that all he’s going to fucking _do_? Jesus _fuck_— and then muses, ‘Speeds around town like an asshole, treats his sister like shit, _aggressive_, picks fights— and there’s the amount of times I’ve had grown men who really should know better come and bother me because they want something done about you before you get all their daughters pregnant—‘ a kind of rueful smirk flickers across the guy’s face, before it gets very _serious, _‘and Steve. I heard about _that_— not from _him_, before you go thinking it, but word eventually got around to me. You gave him a _concussion_, and not a mild one either—’

Guilt. Always with the fucking _guilt._ He can’t say anything, can’t defend himself, but the cop’s still talking, so he probably isn’t expecting him to right now.

‘—Now I used to think he was a jackass like his old man, but after getting to know him better— he’s a _good kid_. Not the kind of kid that deserves the beating you gave him—‘ the cop sighs, scrubs a hand over his face, ‘So I’m coming here, today, with a lot of _preconceived notions_ about the sort of man you are— and a lot of thoughts about whether I want a man like that knowing _anything _that could put my kid in danger—’

_Now_ there’s a pause, but words still won’t come. He wants to scream that he’ll never hurt Harrington again, and even if that was a lie _he’d never hurt El_— but he did, in that other life. He hurt her. He _hunted _her. He almost _killed her_.

The cop seems to be examining him, but he can’t meet the man’s eyes. Yeah, ok, he’s a complete _asshole_, he gets it— and now the _consequences _are coming— But all the man does is fucking _nod_ again and keep talking. ‘_But_— the way Max defended you last night and the way both her and _Steve_ looked at me just before, both of them standing either side of you like a pair of pissed off momma bears—’ the cop laughs, sudden, and he can’t help looking at the man and seeing something softer and weirdly, out of place, _happy _on the man’s face. ‘Anyway, I’m in too good a mood today to come down on you as hard as you probably deserve, so I’ll just say one thing: _Prove me wrong_. Ok?’

_What?_

‘Ok. Good talk,’ another _nod_ and the guy just saunters out of his yard and leaves him there, feeling kind of _stupid, _calling back over his shoulder as he does so, ‘In case you were wondering I sorted everything out about Heather Holloway, so don’t worry— you’re no longer a suspect.’

The _fuck_? _Heather—?_

‘What does that mean?’ he demands, flicking his cigarette off into the yard and chasing after Chief Hopper.

‘What did you think everyone was going to think, you showing up with her unconscious and then disappearing?’ the man replies as he heads to a fucking _yellow— _Fucking _what?_

_TODFTHR?_

Harrington has wandered over to this fuck ugly car while they were “talking” and is admiring the stupid looking thing— _of course he is_. He can just imagine the brunet driving around in this yuppie-puppy. All big hair and pastels, fucking—

‘I was thinking they’d think that it’s fucking _impossible_ to find a fucking cop in this fucking town when you fucking _need one_,’ he snarls before he realises he’s going to do it.

‘Ah, there he is,’ the Chief says to himself— with what he sincerely fucking hopes is the final fucking _nod_— then climbs into the fucking _TODFTHR_ and drives off with nothing more than a ‘Stay out of trouble kids.’

‘Asshole!’ he snarls. ‘That guy is a _dick_,’ he tells Harrington, feeling himself all flared up, waiting for the brunet to argue so he’s got someone to unleash all this rage on—

He deflates.

Fuck. _What is he doing?_

‘Is everything alright?’ Harrington asks with a worried frown. ‘I mean, you’re not in trouble or anything, are you?’

‘You are being far too _nice_ to me,’ he hisses. ‘It’s fucking _freaking me out_—’

The brunet flinches back, expression shuttering off— ‘Sorry. Didn’t meant to— yeah. I’ll just— I’ll _go_.’

He grabs Harrington before the guy can get far. Feeling a nervous quiver in the other’s muscles, letting go when Harrington snatches his arm back and _looks_ _at him—_ and maybe that’s _King Steve_, who knows, because the guy sure as hell looks like he wants to hit him right now.

‘Fuck,’ he hisses. ‘I didn’t _mean_— Look, you wanna come in for a coffee or something?’

Harrington blinks at him for a moment. ‘I don’t— you are sending me some mixed signals here, man.’

He’s not sure why he does it. Like, he managed _not to_ the night before, so it shouldn’t be so hard to just, you know, avoid saying something that makes him feel— Fuck, ok, it makes him feel _vulnerable_, but he’s remembering Max telling him not to be a dick and what the Chief of Police said and— ‘I _am_ sorry I beat you up. _And_ gave you so much shit last year. You didn’t do anything to deserve any of it, so— yeah. _Sorry_.’

Harrington stares at him, all _big_ brown eyes— then, for some reason, flushes bright _pink_. The guy makes a weird bleating, choking, kind of _snorting _noise, then clears his throat, looks away. ‘Um— Wow. _Ok_. Um—’ those eyes flick back to him, ‘_Thank you_. Um. I _appreciate it_— am I making this awkward? I’m making this awkward, aren’t I?’

He shrugs, weirdly fascinated and completely confused by the guy’s reaction. Like, what the fuck? But Harrington’s starting to look a bit worried, so he adds, ‘Nah. I think that was pretty much all me— So— _coffee?_’

The brunet looks back behind them to his car, where he can see Robin sitting in the passenger seat, then gives him a little, apologetic smile. ‘I should probably get her home,’ one coral pink lip disappears between teeth for a moment, ‘—but, raincheck? Yeah?’

‘Yeah—’ he clears his throat. ‘Raincheck.’


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For mentions of domestic violence, mentions of creeps looking at Max at swimming pools, and underage use of alcohol as a coping mechanism. Please do feel free to tell me is I've missed any. 
> 
> A short chapter's better than no chapter, right? Ah, I don't know, maybe we'll get to Billy seeing Steve in a swimsuit next time. Thank you all so much, as always, for reading, and the comments and the kudos- you're all wonderful!

He goes back to work the next day— Heather being in the hospital means that without him they’d be down _two_ lifeguards, so everyone just seems content to pretend he didn’t skip out for a few days. He kind of hates it. He keeps catching the others _looking _at him, whispering— and then there’s all the obviously false concern about _Heather_ that’s really either an excuse to make themselves seem like good people or a chance to gossip. Fuck them. Also fuck them if they can’t deal with the fact he wears a shirt all the time now.

The fact that his car is in the shop should make shit difficult for him, but fucking Neil _tells_ Susan over dinner that she’ll be lending him her car— his dad’s stated logic seems to be that the man himself can drop her off at work on his own way in every morning and pick her up at night— but he gets the sense that what the man really is trying to do is deprive her of her ability to go where she wants when she wants to. She doesn’t argue though, and what’s he supposed to do? It’s not worth getting into a fight with his old man over something like that when he knows she won’t thank him— especially as it leaves him with a ride.

Still, he can’t help but feel kinda sorry for Susan. She’s starting to get that real _trapped_ look about her.

—

And it would all be good and it would all be fine and life would just be going on— except he can’t _sleep_. Not really. Not since the first night.

It’s like he can feel his body start to come apart every time he closes his eyes and it’s— _Yeah_. Then if he does manage to fall asleep— Sometimes it’s just memories of the last time around. Sometimes it’s memories of this time. Sometimes it’s just _memories_— hitting Harrington again and again, but this time he doesn’t _stop_ and _Harrington_—

And sometimes he’s trapped in the Upside Down, in this dead and rotten mirror of Hawkins— only the air doesn’t hurt his lungs when he breathes in and his flesh is as cold and wrong and dead as the place itself— and the him there knows he’s trapped and knows he’ll never get free and it’s starting to drive him—

So. Yeah. By next Saturday he’s feeling—

It doesn’t help that his body is _wrong_. And he’s not imagining it either. It’s not just the faint scars, or whatever they are— Some dumbass kid almost drowned himself at work and he ended up having to dive in to pull the worthless little shit out, and the moment he did— He can still swim. He can still _float_— but—

Somehow he’s gained just over forty pounds— at least that’s what the scales tell him— except he doesn’t look any different. Can’t tell if he actually _feels_ different, or if it’s just the— the—

_Worry_.

And the thing is— life just goes on. Like nothing ever happened. Except it _did_—

It’s fucking with his head. And not just him either—

A couple days in and he and Max were fighting pretty much like they used to, both pissed at everything, both picky about everything, both skating around on the edge of their tempers— and she was really, really, _really _starting to piss him off— but a couple of nights ago, when he couldn’t sleep and got sick of staring at his ceiling, he finally decided a beer (or two or _three _or **_four_**) was the way to go, he found her sitting on the sofa, in the dark, tears streaming down her face.

He’d joined her there, pulled her against his side, held her while she cried silently, and then, when she was done, she’d told him how she keeps on dreaming about Demodogs and the Mind Flayer and being attacked, being _killed_, or watching El or Wheeler Jr or Sinclair or Harrington or any of them _die_ and not being able to help, or seeing _him_ die— so he has to tell her he has dreams like that too, even though admitting it out loud makes him feel _weak_— because he doesn’t want her to think there’s something wrong with her for being upset after everything.

It’s happened every night since, though they haven’t really talked about it, at least not outside the moment, at least not anything other than her sometimes describing her dreams or him making vague references to his— mainly the ones that feel like _dreams_, not the ones that are him trapped in that cold, dead world feeling like he’s going _out of his mind_. Mostly though they sit side by side, pressed together, and sometimes she cries, quietly, because neither of them want to risk fucking _Neil_ waking up and losing his shit at them.

It was a bad one last night. He hadn’t been sleeping when he’d heard her yelp— a bitten off scream— and by the time he’d been out of bed to go check on her she’d been standing in the hallway outside his room, shaking like a terrified chihuahua. _El_ is all she’d say, again and again.

Anyway. She’d been so upset all he could think to do was get a beer down her and sit with her on the couch until the alcohol smoothed things over a bit and she’d drifted off.

So, today they’re both a bit quiet, but he feels close to her, like she’s family, like she’s _blood_. Closer than blood considering his mom and fucking _Neil_— Weird. All the distance that was ever between them seems to have shrunk into nothing— Still doesn’t explain why his immediate response to, ‘Did you know Steve has a _pool_? Dustin says he won’t go in it or let any of us in it because he thinks that’s where Barb Holland died or got sucked into the Upside Down or whatever, but that’s kind of stupid isn’t it? I mean, what a waste of a perfectly good pool. And it’s _so hot today_, oh my God. We were all thinking of going to the pool too— except there’s always so many people there and—’ blah, blah, blah, etc. etc. etc. is to immediately offer to come check out Harrington’s dumb pool in his official capacity as a lifeguard and hang around while they swim to rescue anyone who seems about to drop dead or get trapped in freaky alternate dimensions. And also accuse her of trying to manipulate him into doing so.

To which she responds she misses swimming and also hates creeps looking at her at the public pool even more than _he _does, and he’s the one who threatens to rip their eyes out of their skulls if they don’t keep them off his stepsister.

She has a point.

‘Does Harrington know about this genius plan?’ he asks while she’s fussing with her hair in the bathroom mirror.

A shrug. ‘Dustin told him it was going to happen, so—?’

He sighs. ‘I have no idea how he puts up with you shitty kids,’ and then it occurs to him, ‘and _don’t_ wear a bikini or something. Don’t think I’m not going to threaten to rip the eyes out of _Sinclair’s_ skull— or any of those other shitty boys you hang around with— just because you don’t mind them looking as much as if they were a fifty-year-old creep.’

This prompts a bit of bitching about him being _gross_, but he gets distracted by the realisation he better get ready too.

In the end it’s kind of embarrassing but she’s the one waiting for him to be done. At first he’s thinking he’s looking _good_, hair’s doing what he wants it to, facial hair’s finally at a point where he’s happy with it— all he needs is his shorts— but fucking _scars_. Jesus _fuck_. Ok, yeah. Max hasn’t seen them, Max doesn’t know he got shot, Max will _freak the fuck out_— the rest of the kids might too— maybe not _Squawky,_ or Erica if she’s there— but what if El sees and goes and tells _Chief Hopper?_

Also there’s the other scars and even though only Harrington might know what they are, the guy might also put two and two together and get _actual monster _and decide his policy of _not telling anyone_ might be better put off in favour of calling up the US Military and getting him in all sorts of trouble.

So he’s going to have to wear a shirt to Harrington’s pool— like a complete loser weirdo. Oh God. What’s the guy going to _think_?

He tries on like _every shirt that he owns_, trying to find one that makes him look like not _a complete loser weirdo_— but— _yeah_.

He’s about to give up and tell Max he’s not fucking going— but then it occurs to him that he’s basically been invited-(ish) to act as a lifeguard, so it probably won’t look so out of place if he dresses like a lifeguard. A _shirt wearing _lifeguard.

As they leave Max gives him a funny look, but he’s _doing his best_, ok?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For homophobic language and I'm sure something I've missed, so please let me know if you think I should add more. 
> 
> I've got less than five minutes to get this posted so this may all be a bit rushed. Sorry it took so long to reply to the comments last time, but busy, busy- That doesn't mean I don't appreciate you all though. I do. I appreciate you all so very much! Anyway, thank you all so much for reading, and for the comments and kudos! And I hope you enjoy this chapter even though it's, again, a short one.

When they arrive at Harrington’s— Jesus fucking _Christ_— big ol’ house Squawky lets them in like he fucking _owns the place_, with a casual ‘Steve’s out the back.’

Robin and Erica are also out the back, apparently, he discovers once he’s been led through this fucking yuppie mini-_mansion_, standing side by side and watching Harrington— dressed in jeans and a light blue t-shirt, bruises faded to an ugly yellow-green around the edges— standing by the side of his pool and staring into it with a look of quiet horror.

The two girls do not look impressed. He kind of gets it— pool’s nice, real nice, seems a shame that it’s being wasted like this— until he leaves Max talking to Squawky and gets closer to the brunet, lighting up as he does.

At first it’s just like the weather’s turned. The hot, sticky day suddenly feeling cold, the air kind of dead. But then he starts prickling, _itching_— this whole body discomfort in lines across his flesh, swirling lines, lines like— and then the air starts smelling wrong, feeling _wrong_, and as he comes to a stop beside the brunet and glances down where Harrington is looking for a moment he sees—

It’s dark and wrong and there’s a _shape_ and—

He blinks. The water is blue and still and—

‘_Jesus fucking **Christ**_, that is horrifying,’ slips out before he can stop it.

Harrington glances over to him with big brown eyes, looking surprised, ‘Did you see something?’

‘Can _you_?’ he asks, perturbed.

The brunet frowns, ‘Sometimes I think I have, but when I look there’s nothing there— I mean, Nancy told me this is where Barb _died_, or whatever— I mean, not here, _exactly_, but in the pool— so I think it’s probably just that I know that. But—’ those brown eyes go back to the water, wary.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees a flicker of movement, red hair, that purple bikini that he did not want Max wearing— he catches her before she can jump in the pool and starts dragging her away from it. ‘What?!’ she yelps, ‘Billy fuck _off_. _Let me go_!’

‘Nope,’ he replies. ‘No way—’

She starts squawking something about being allowed to wear a bikini if she wants to, but he bellows over her with, ‘No one is getting in Harrington’s gross fucking _horrifying _pool, ok? No one. That shit is just fucking _wrong_.’

‘What the fuck are you _talking about_?!’ she wails. ‘Billy! Jesus, stop being a _douchebag_!’

While she’s squawking the other kids show up, El— still with a bandage on her leg— the little faggot kid, Sinclair, and Wheeler Jr. All of them stopping and _staring_ at the two of them. He sees the assortment of swimsuits. ‘_Fucking **NO**_!’ he snaps. ‘No one is getting in that pool. Jesus, do none of you have any survival instincts?’

‘You are being a fucking _psycho_!’ Max yelps at him, dragging her arm free. ‘We got you to come so you could convince Steve he was being nuts and now you’re being even _nuttier_!’

‘I’m not _nuts_,’ he hisses, ‘have you actually gone anywhere near that pool? It’s fucking _wrong_.’

‘Are you fucking with me?’ she hisses. ‘If you’re fucking with me—’ she stomps over to where he was standing and peers down into the water. He can’t help it, instinct making him hover near her to grab her if she even _looks_ like she’s about to get in the water. ‘See, there’s nothing wrong—’

‘_Mike_,’ he hears a quiet voice say. He looks over and it’s the little faggot kid— the other kids must have come over when Max did— and the kid’s grabbed Wheeler Jr with one hand, the other on the back of his neck, eyes wide and freaked out.

‘At least one of you isn’t completely fucking _stupid_,’ he says as the kids start fussing over the boy. ‘See Max, you should try to be more like your little fa—’ is as far as he gets before she elbows him _savagely_ in the gut, giving him a real nasty _look_, and scurrying over to Will’s side. Ok. Yes. Maybe calling the kid a faggot out loud might not have been entirely politic.

‘So, no pool?’ Harrington says, drifting over to his side as he’s surreptitiously rubbing where she got him. The brunet looks kind of smug— but he’d guess it’s not about the fact he just got winded when the guy says, ‘I _told_ them— At least for once I’m not being a _complete _idiot.’

He nods. ‘No pool—’ Except now there’s a bunch of fucking fourteen-year-olds in swimsuits carrying on in Harrington’s yard.

Since it’s pretty clear that things are going to degenerate into something stupid like trying to investigate/fix/exorcise Harrington’s gross pool— and he does not want either Max or El anywhere near this bullshit ever again— it’d be best to distract them. He claps his hands and bellows, ‘Ok shitbirds! As your plan was bullshit and Harrington was right all along— you can all apologize to him later by the way, that’d be the _decent_ thing to do— and you’re all still wearing swimsuits like a bunch of losers we might as well head to the community pool— just what I wanted, spending time at my place of employment on my day off.’

They stare at him. ‘Chop, chop. It wasn’t a fucking _suggestion_. Split yourselves into two groups, one with Harrington, one with me.’ They just keep staring— ‘What? You think I’m about to let you try and get my sister killed investigating this shit right now? _Think again_.’

They start whispering amongst themselves— but, since they don’t argue, obviously they’re not that interested in starting a rebellion.

Harrington disappears inside for a minute to get his things— since they’re all heading for a pool that isn’t— well, _you know_, and the guy seems to want a chance to swim without worrying he’ll be. _Murdered?_ Dragged into some nightmare dimension?

While the guy’s away the kids start splitting themselves into two groups. Or, more accurately, the kids with any opinion about who they want to go with do. And Robin. Robin’s going with Harrington of course. Same with Squawky.

Max is at least sensible enough to know she’s going with him, and he’s happy to see El seems to want to stay with her— but, worryingly, it looks like Sinclair and Wheeler Jr. want to come with the girls— ‘Not you, I don’t like you—’ he says pointing at Sinclair, then Wheeler Jr. ‘or _you_. Ok. You know what, _I’m _deciding who goes with who. Max, El, Erica, little Byers, you’re with me. Robin, Squawky, Sinclair, and _you_, you’re with Harrington.’ He looks at the bitching boys and snorts, ‘You should thank me. If I had to have the three of you in the car with me I think it’d be too hard to resist the fucking temptation to kill us all by driving into a _tree_.’ He hears Wheeler Jr mutter to Max something about him being a _psycho_, but does he even look like he cares?

Once Harrington has re-emerged from his bower they get going, him spending the entire drive to the pool luxuriating in the peace and quiet of his vastly _superior_ selection of children. A glance at Erica sitting in the passenger seat— because even the _suggestion_ that maybe Max should sit there and she should sit in the back had earned them all a truly majestic _look_— and he nods to himself. Poor Harrington.

They get to the pool and the kids pile out and Harrington sighs, bumps shoulders with Robin, and gives _him_ a look like “why did you trap me with all the shittiest children?” before the kids are headed for the water and both the brunet and Robin disappear into the changing rooms.

The chick returns first, wearing this plain, black swimsuit that’s either school issued or— fuck. Who knows. Looks ugly and institutional as fuck. Then—

Fucking Harrington’s swim trunks are the tiniest fucking little oh God Jesus fucking _Christ_ **blue**. Blue. They’re _blue_. Bright fucking sky **_blue_**.

—

—

—

_Fuck_.

—

—

Fuck.

—

He shifts, uncomfortable. Wow. There’s a lot of hot chicks out today, huh? He’s starting to chub up. Just look at that bottle blonde he can remember from some of his classes— _what was her fucking name?_— in that tiny, little white bikini. Yeah.

Anyway.

Yeah. Ok. He’s seen Harrington naked before— but put the brunet in that absofuckinglutely _obscene_ little pair of shorts and it’s suddenly glaringly obvious that the guy has a swimmer’s physique. Put him in the water— which is where he heads almost as soon as he emerges, since Adam declares it “adult swim”— and it’s glaringly obvious that it’s more than a matter of looks.

That long, lean body cuts through the water with the kind of easy confidence only a _lifetime_ of swimming would give. Fuck, _does he surf_? Imagine him in the ocean—

Long lean body all tan from the summer sun, that stupid fucking hair slicked down, saltwater dripping down his neck, a big bright smile on those coral lips—

Someone makes a real fucking _obnoxious_ snorting noise right next to him, making him jump. He whirls around to find Robin, but she doesn’t look like she said anything and is now giving him a funny look for staring at her. ‘You alright there Hargrove?’ she asks. ‘You’re looking a bit red. I’ve got some sunblock if you need it?’

‘Don’t need it,’ he replies, ‘I don’t _freckle_,’ the “unlike like you” remains unsaid.

‘Wow, dick much?’ she mutters under her breath as she pads past him and climbs into the pool. She is not the swimmer Harrington is— though he’s kind of disappointed to see that she _can _swim— slower, less elegant, less _interesting_— his eyes go back to the lithe figure in blue. _Jesus_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: for homophobic/sexist language, also for perverts looking at underage girls, probably others so let me know if I've missed any.
> 
> Yay I got this chapter finished oh my God! Tired again, but things are starting to calm down a bit now so hopefully longer chapters. Thank you so much for the comments and kudos and for being so nice, I really do appreciate it, more than I can say!

Jesus, he is standing be the side of the pool and watching the swimmers and no one is even paying him for it. Since he can’t go in without taking his top off— no matter how _seductive_ the blue of the water looks on this hot, sticky day— he might as well find somewhere to sit and keep an eye on the kids and anyone who might think it’s a stellar idea to perve on his stepsister— or El. Or, fuck, _Erica_—

Someone really should drown perverts like that.

‘Why aren’t you swimming?’ Max demands, coming to stand over him and glare the moment he’s actually found somewhere comfortable to sit— though by _find_ what he means is tell the kid already sitting there to take a fucking _hike_—

‘You have any idea how much piss is in that pool?’ he asks, raising a brow and lighting a cigarette. ‘Because I don’t, but I can _guess_.’

‘Ew. _Gross_,’ she replies, then saunters off to go talk to El.

He sees, _displeased_, that Sinclair and Wheeler Jr. are lurking nearby, sees that _both_ the little shits have the audacity to give Max a once over as she wraps an arm around the other girl’s shoulders and leans in to whisper something that makes them both giggle. Fucking _boys_.

Max catches his eye and gives him a warning glare so he rolls his eyes, _if she wants to be perved on by her gross friends_— still. Annoys him.

He has a quick look for the rest of the kids, sees Erica’s found some of her friends, sees little Byers hanging around with Squawky— who seems to have been looking at _him_, but who looks away the moment their eyes meet. Then he finds his eyes searching for something less irritating to look at and catches Harrington’s form in the water once more.

The only thing that ruins it, makes _irritation_ rise, is the shadow of the fading bruises, but he almost can’t see them right now. Through the water. With the easy way the guy is swimming.

—

Fuck.

Maybe one day he could suggest they take a road trip— him, Harrington, maybe _Max _if she’s being less annoying— all of them drive back to Cali, back to the sea and the surf and all his old haunts—

It’s pretty fucking _faggy_ to think a guy looks beautiful, isn’t it? Even if it’s only the way he swims—

Good fucking thing he doesn’t then, yeah?

Eventually the kids are let back in the pool, which prompts Harrington to immediately get back out of it. The brunet looks around for a moment before spotting him, then comes straight over, all slicked down hair and long legs.

‘That was so good!’ Harrington exclaims, standing over his lounge chair. ‘I have _missed_ swimming.’

His eyes catch on droplets of pool water as they drip from the ends of that surprisingly long hair and run down the guy’s chest.

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_—

He stubs out the cigarette and clears his throat. ‘I know why you can’t swim at home, but why haven’t I seen you around here all summer?’

The brunet flops down onto the lounge next to him, abandoned by the friends of the kid he’d chased off the one where he’s sitting. A small shrug, ‘Didn’t think I’d be welcome.’

Guilt again, but a bit softer than usual, because Harrington gives him a rueful smile and he can’t read any condemnation in the guy’s look. If the brunet has _forgiven_ him— fuck. It’s more than he deserves. ‘Well, any time you want to for the rest of summer—’

‘I _wish_,’ Harrington laughs, ‘but I’ve got to get another job. Robin and I have been looking—’ he trails off. ‘Robin!’

The girl, who had been lingering in the pool until the sheer volume of kids had driven her out, heads over, Harrington shifting about on the lounge so she can flop down onto it next to him. She slings an arm over the brunet’s shoulder and pulls him close, making Harrington let out a little _oof_ sound. ‘Good swim, dingus?’

‘Good swim,’ the guy responds, wrapping one of his own arms around her waist and pulling at her until they unbalance each other and collapse backwards on the lounge in a pile of limbs. ‘How about you?’

The girl’s giggling too much to answer, which starts Harrington giggling, and then he’s staring at the two of them and wondering _what the fuck_, and also feeling real annoyed. Weirdest fucking couple, _ever_.

He looks away, lights another cigarette.

‘You sure you don’t want some sunblock, Hargrove?’ the chick asks as she happily rolls herself until she’s lying half over Harrington like— he doesn’t even know like _what_. His brain keeps thinking _beached whale_. ‘You’re looking even redder than before.’

This makes Harrington half sit up and look over at him with concern, ‘I’ve got some aloe back at home if you need it—? I should have brought it I guess, but I have to be out for ages to burn— usually I just _tan_.’

‘Then why do you have aloe?’ Robin asks.

A grimace, brown eyes glancing to the side. ‘You’ve seen Tommy, right?’

‘He is a real freckly little fuck, isn’t he?’ he muses, then glances at Robin, ‘Worse than you even.’

She glares at him, but not for long, her attention going back to Harrington with a look of— _Why does she look so concerned_? She leans in close and whispers something in the brunet’s ear, and then he could swear Harrington whispers back, “It’s fine. _I’m _fine.”

_The fuck_?

He would contemplate asking some questions about now, but he catches sight of Max’s red hair out of the corner of his eye and when his eyes focus on her, and El, the two of them heading his way, he can see one of the men here with his wife and his fucking _kids_ leering at the girls. He’s on his feet before he can think, stomping over to put himself between the girls and the pervert.

‘Hey, you old skeez!’ he snarls, making the man jump, eyes twitching away from Max’s body and meeting his gaze. The man pales. The wife looks over. Behind him he hears _Oh Jesus, here we go_— ‘Eyes off my sister’s ass if you don’t want me to put _this—_’ he waves the cigarette at the man, ‘—out in them.’

The guy tries to argue that he wasn’t looking, puffing up and going red, looking even uglier than nature made him. Limp-dick little shit. He’s not fucking intimidated, gets up in the guy’s face, points out what he saw, calls the man out for what he is, points out that the man is here with his wife and his— now freaking out— _kids_.

This gets the wife in question involved— but, of course, like every other _stupid_ woman content to be walked all over she takes her husband’s side. ‘I know what I saw,’ he tells them both with a sneer, and then, ‘I’m sorry m’am, you might want to keep your _dog_ on a leash if you’re going to take him out in public.’ She looks like she’s going to hit him, and he’ll take it if she does, but it’s just making him think less of her.

Adam comes trotting over to try and de-escalate the situation, and at first he thinks the other lifeguard is going to take the couple’s side, feels himself start to tense up, _fuck, he needs his job here, _but the guy’s handsome face scrunches when he says the man was looking at his _fourteen-year-old _sister and her friend, and then the man and his wife turn their aggressive defensiveness on his dark-haired colleague and somehow, _fuck knows how_, it ends with the couple and their poor kids being kicked out of the pool for the day—

‘Fucking pervert,’ he hears Adam mutter as the family stalks off all offended. Grey eyes flick over to him, then away. ‘I’m probably not supposed to say _thanks _for starting a stink like that Hargrove—’ the guy claps him on the back, ‘So let’s just pretend that’s not what this is. Caught the guy looking at my own sister a time or two in the past—’ with that Adam walks off, leaving him feeling. Something. Weird. Expectations fucking _subverted_.

Every now and then he catches himself thinking maybe this town isn’t so bad— _monsters _aside.

He heads back to his seat, finds Harrington and Robin sitting up on theirs, _watching_ him. Finds Max and El standing there too, a frown on El’s face, a _look_ on Max’s. ‘I was coming over to offer to buy you a coke or something,’ she tells him. ‘But then you did _that_ again, even though it’s embarrassing, so now you have to buy me one. And _El_. And, I dunno, Steve and Robin.’

Harrington starts to say that _it’s alright, that he doesn’t need Billy to_— so he interrupts, looking at Max, ‘Thought you hate _New Coke_?’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Then a _Pepsi_.’

‘Fine, ok, _whatever_,’ he stalks off to fetch her stupid _Pepsi_. A moment later he hears rushing footsteps, looks around to tell whoever it is off for running near the pool, but it’s El.

The girl is still dry, no sign of having got into the pool for all she’s wearing a swimsuit. His eyes flick to the bandage around her calf— she probably just didn’t want to be left out. ‘You doing alright, kid?’ he asks as she falls into step beside him.

She thinks for a moment. ‘I’m ok—’ a pause. He thinks maybe she wants to say something else. ‘My powers haven’t come back though.’

Oh.

He wishes he could tell her something, _anything_, to reassure her— but if the Mind Flayer knew anything about what had happened to her _he_ doesn’t, and he has no memories of the time _after_, but— ‘Give it time,’ he suggests, ‘You overdid it, that’s all.’

She nods. ‘That’s what everyone keeps telling me—’

They reach the soda machine and he starts feeding in coins. He can feel it still, the sense she wants to say something else. Eventually she almost mumbles, ‘Are you angry with me? You told me to rest and—’

He shakes his head, looking at her as reassuringly as he can. ‘I’m not angry with you.’

‘Are you sure?’ she asks, sounding nervous. ‘Because I don’t think people always say if they are.’

‘Shit was happening and you wanted to protect everyone, right?’

She nods. ‘Right.’

‘And it’s not like there’s really anyone else who can, is it? Or find people when they’ve disappeared—?’

‘No,’ she shakes her head.

‘So, what were you supposed to do? Of course you used your powers—’ he sighs, ‘I just wish you hadn’t had to.’ He hands her a Pepsi. ‘That one’s yours.’

She opens the can and sips it, ‘_Sweet_.’

‘Yep,’ he replies, carrying the other cans back to the others. ‘Not as sweet as New Coke though—’

She nods, ‘_Too sweet_.’

He hands over Max’s first, since she starts making _gimme_ motions the moment she sees him, then Robin’s, then Harrington’s— fingers brushing against the brunet’s longer ones— then opens his own. The day _is_ really fucking gross. Hot and sticky and—

He flops back onto his lounge, making sure to leave room for Max and El, who sit on the end of it. They’re all having a nice, _peaceful_ drink, when the boys show up and start whining about no one buying them a Pepsi. ‘_Steve_, you’ll lend me the money, won’t you?’ Squawky says, fucking audacious little—

Harrington starts shifting like he’s going to get off the lounge, but Robin pushes him back down, ignoring his protests that he doesn’t mind buying the kids a drink. ‘Hargrove bought them, you want a drink, try asking _him_,’ she suggests.

He gives the little shit a _look_ to make sure the kid knows exactly how welcome he is to try it. Squawky gets huffy, which is _annoying_— though nowhere near as annoying as just about _everything_ about Wheeler Jr.— but soon enough the girls have finished their drinks and all the kids are going off together to do whatever stupid shit it is they do.

He checks around again to make sure Erica is ok— sees her in the pool with her friends— and sighs. Time for another smoke. He’s lighting up when the blonde from earlier, the one in the _tiny_ white bikini, comes sauntering over in that kind of awkwardly _deliberate _way some girls walk when they’re trying to be seductive.

‘Hi Billy,’ she husks as she comes to a stop at the end of his lounge.

‘Hey Chelsea!’ Harrington pipes up from his seat intertwined with Robin.

The girl glances over, raises her brows like she’s just stepped in dogshit and can’t believe it’s happening— ‘Steve,’ she says in a decidedly less purring voice, then turns her attention back to him. ‘I though it was really _brave_ what you did before, standing up for your sister like that,’ she breathes, bending down a little and pushing a pair of truly _magnificent _tits closer together with her upper arms to emphasise her cleavage.

Jesus fucking _Christ_, if it was just the two of them he would _definitely_ be getting his dick sucked about now.

She is _hot as fuck_— but he finds himself a little bit annoyed, not sure why. The way she said _Steve_— he glances at the brunet and finds the guy and Robin sitting forward, curled around each other, whispering _furiously_. Harrington seems to be finding something seriously fucking _amusing_ from the way he’s trying to hold in giggles, but Robin is _bright red_— ‘_Nine, definitely a nine_—’ he thinks he hears her say. ‘Goddammit Stevie, you were right. _Jesus Christ_.’

Harrington responds with what sounds like, ‘I said a _ten_.’

To which the chick whispers, ‘points off for personality— and _hair_.’

Harrington’s brown eyes flicker over— _Chelsea_? Head to toe, assessing, before lingering on her head. ‘Ok, _yeah_,’ the guy whispers with a nod.

What?

‘So,’ the blonde is purring, ‘Are you doing anything later? There’s a party at Brad Dailey’s— since, you know, Tommy H.’s parents came back and now everyone else is having to pick up the slack. Will you be there?’ she actually bats her eyelashes at him, ‘Because _I_ will be.’

Fuck. _Hot _girl is flirting with him and he is not flirting back. He really has _malfunctioned_. He gives her one of his most charming smiles, ‘Then I might see you there, _Chelsea_ is it?’

She nods, breathes out, ‘See you then,’ and slinks past, hips swaying. For a moment he’s caught watching her, but as she moves past Harrington and Robin his eyes catch on both their faces, eyes on her perfect ass with just as much intensity as his own just were.

Wait—

_WHAT?_

A moment later Robin lets out a strangled sound and collapses against Harrington, hiding her face against his neck. Harrington laughs and wraps both arms around her, rocking her back and forth a bit until they’re in danger of falling off the lounge. Smiling brown eyes look over at him and the brunet says, ‘That girl tries _way _too hard, doesn’t she?’ while Robin is still muttering to herself in his grasp.

Ok.

_Ok_.

Um—

_Play it cool_. ‘Chelsea?’ he asks, raising a brow.

Harrington nods. ‘When we were younger she was actually nerdier than, like, _any_ of the kids, but now she’s all—’

He nods. ‘Fucking _centrefold_, right?’

‘Yep,’ Harrington sighs, relaxing back on the lounge with Robin still red and hiding her face against his neck. ‘_Definitely_ a nine.’

—

_No way_.

_No **fucking** way. _

That would be—

—

Huh.

—


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For the usual homophobic/sexist language, probably also for the objectification of women, as well as possibly others. Tell me if I've missed any. Plus CONTENT WARNING: For hetero sex. Admittedly bad hetero sex, but hetero sex nonetheless.
> 
> Welcome to part one of Billy's rather wild night. Part two should be done early next week... A reminder, Billy is very good at denial- Anyway, thank you all for reading, and for the comments and kudos! You're all awesome!

He’s smoked half a pack of cigarettes by the time the kids get sick of being at the pool— even given one to Harrington when Robin disentangled herself from him long enough to go use the ladies room—

He feels weird. Ok, these days he _always_ feels weird, but this is a _different_ weird. Kind of antsy. A strange kind of energy buzzing in his veins that’s different than the energy he’s had ever since he woke up post _monster_ transformation.

It takes him until he’s driven Max home to realise what it is. He’s _horny_. Huh. First time since it all went down— means his dick _does _still work not matter what might have happened to it.

Must have been Chelsea and her itsy, bitsy, teenie, weenie, almost _see-though_ little white bikini that did it.

Max takes ownership of the shower when they go inside— and knowing her she’ll be a _while_— so he decides he might as well jerk off while he’s got the house (pretty much) to himself. He goes flicking through his skin mags for a sexy blonde, body as killer as that _Chelsea’s_, but like usual his attention keeps getting caught up by brunette beauties with big brown eyes.

Choosing the hottest one he can find— long and lanky and with _gorgeous_ legs— he goes to town, spitting into his palm and wrapping it around his dick, trying to get himself off with maximum efficiency.

He looks at the girl, pussy spread for him, tries to imagine he’s there with her, between her legs— maybe licking into her. He likes that. Girls like that. It’s all good— but it’s not working. His dick’s hard, he’s feeling _good_, but the pleasure’s not building to anything—

So he tries imagining Chelsea, pulling that tiny little bikini out of the way, slicking his fingers up where she’s all wet, making her moan and squeak and clench up when he pushes the first one in—

Nope. No joy.

What the fuck?

Ok. Ok.

Forget the skin mag, forget Chelsea, just lean back and shut his eyes and imagine whatever it is he’s actually after. _Legs_. Yeah. Long, long legs. Brown hair. Brown eyes. A sweet smile just for him. A hole, tight and clenching around his fingers. A mouth to kiss. Thighs wrapped around him. Deep, soft voice _moaning _his name. Wanting it. Wanting _him_. All _his_—

He comes, hard and sudden and strangely _unsatisfying_, and when it’s done he’s not any less horny than he was before. Not any less antsy. Something fucking _vibrating_ under his skin.

He needs to get his dick sucked, that’ll fix it.

—

Where the fuck’s Brad Dailey’s house?

What the fuck is he going to do with Max while he’s out of Susan doesn’t come back soon? No way is he leaving her here all by herself, and since Chief Hopper’s cabin was destroyed this time around too and he has no idea where El and her father are staying, leaving her with the other girl is out of the question. Also, no way is he dropping her on the doorstep of _any_ of those shitty boys. Except maybe the Byers kid— but the Byers house is fucking _awful_ so he doesn’t really want her there either. Maybe he can leave her with Harrington? Yeah. Harrington is safe. Harrington will look after her—

Turns out he doesn’t have to worry because fucking Neil drops Susan off while he’s getting ready to go out. ‘Your father is having dinner with some colleagues,’ she tells him, as if he even cares.

‘Sure Susan,’ he replies, fussing with his hair— which is still looking fucking _epic_ today— before applying the usual date night cologne. _Aramis_ this time. Huh. It doesn’t smell anywhere near as good as Harrington’s scent— he’s gotta ask the guy which one it is. It’d be kinda— _weird_. Really. To get some for himself, but he’s still _curious_.

Max comes in to gawk at him while he’s checking himself out a final time in the mirror. ‘You’re going out?’

‘There’s a party at Brad Dailey’s house,’ he replies, admiring the way the black silk shirt he chose still manages to look cool even though he’s got it buttoned almost all the way up.

‘Do you even know who Brad Dailey is?’ she asks with a knowing look on her face.

‘Nope,’ he barks out a laugh, ‘No fucking clue.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Jessica Dailey is in my grade—’

‘Yeah, _and?_’

‘_And_— do you want to know their address?’

‘Sounds a better idea than just driving around town until I find a party—’ which had been his previous plan.

She tells him the address but then keeps lingering in his doorway. ‘What?’

A nervous little flicker crosses her face. ‘You’ll be back, um, _later_. Right? You’re not going to stay out all night—?’

He thinks of her nightmares, her leaning against him on the couch, the times she’s sobbed out a confession that it was _him_ she was dreaming about. Dying. Disappearing—

‘I’ll be back before my coach turns into a pumpkin— I _promise_ kid.’ Huh. His mom used to love Cinderella— He’d forgotten that until just then.

She nods. ‘Then have fun— and don’t do anything _stupid_.’

Stupid like _what_?

The party is about as interesting as every Hawkins party— not very. A lot of dumb, drunk kids doing dumb, drunk shit. When he’d first arrived in town he’d been so fucking _miserable_, so keen to forget the fact his dad had trapped him out in bumfuck nowhere with no one he knew and a whole bunch of kids that didn’t know they had to treat him with _respect_ just yet— so he’d been just as dumb as the rest of them. Fucking idiots. A kegstand isn’t that fucking _impressive_—

Though with Tommy fucking H. bitching in his ear about how Harrington thought he was better than anyone else just because he could—

Fuck.

That’ll teach him for listening to a dumb shit like that.

He gets a beer when he gets in the door and starts to mingle, letting his body move to the surprisingly danceable music. No fucking _disco_, thank fuck.

He keeps an eye out for that specific shade of bleached-to-shit blonde, thinking that Chelsea really was up for it earlier, and she _is_ hot as _shit_. He thinks he’s seen her at a few parties before, but she was always with a guy at the time and he was never picky. Out for a good time, not trying to bag the best looking broad in the place.

He spots Carol before he does Chelsea and frowns. She is _drunk_, he can tell already, drunk and hanging off a couple potato-faced guys he vaguely remembers from the basketball team— no Tommy H. in sight.

When she sees him she actually sticks her middle finger up at him before wrapping her arms around potato-face 01’s shoulders and pulling him down for a kiss.

Ok. Whatever.

By the time he finds Chelsea he’s considering taking one or two other girls up on the offers he sees in their eyes, in the way they say his name, in the way they lean into him. Being _wanted_ is a powerful thing— but the smell of smoke and something sweet and chlorine and sunblock and tanning oil seems trapped in his nose, the memory of long legs, white teeth bared in a smile—

Yeah. It’s _Chelsea _his body wants.

When he does find her, leaning against a windowsill in the lounge, staring out at kids doing dumb shit by the keg in the backyard, a red cup in her hand, he thinks _yes_. ‘Hey,’ he says, leaning against the wall next to her.

She smiles, wide and happy, before she can catch it and turn it into something a bit more _seductive_. And that’s pretty much that. A tiny bit more small talk and she’s leading him through the house to a moonlit bedroom, pushing him back on the bed, stripping out of her short little dress and pulling open his jeans so she can—

Give him the worst head he thinks he’s ever had in his life. Jesus fucking _Christ_.

Awkward and toothfilled and she keeps making these _choking_ noises, and not _hot_ choking noises, choking noises like she’s about to puke in his lap, and there’s tears running down her face and smudging her mascara, and the way she’s holding her body tells him she’s enjoying this about as much as he is and his dick’s not even all the way _hard_. Worst is that all her gagging is making the image of it splitting apart along the scars into some fucking _tentacle_ and _choking her to death_ keep flashing across his mind, so that’s definitely _not fucking helping_.

‘Ok, ok,’ he says, grabbing at her shoulders and tugging at her until she finally gives up his dick like a dog fighting to keep a bone. ‘Let’s try something else.’

She starts apologizing and then _bursts into tears_— Oh God— and in the resultant babbling he thinks she’s going on about knowing she’s terrible at it and that she has a sensitive throat and she always feels like she’s going to choke, so then he has to try and reassure her and—

Fuck. Ok.

So— since he’s not in the mood for the full fuck right this moment, for arms and legs around him and all that full body _contact_ which sometimes makes him feel kind of _trapped_— and definitely not after her _crying_ and him worrying his dick’s about to savagely _misbehave_— he offers to eat her out, which makes her start on about how most guys won’t— which he doesn’t get and never has— and then about how the last guy who did was “_Steve._”

He pulls back to look at her, ‘Wait, _Harrington?’ _

She nods. ‘We, _you know_—’ no he does not _know_, ‘—a few times, but he’s _too big_, and he wouldn’t fit, so instead he’d _do that_ and then I’d use my hand on him.’

Why the fuck did she just tell him that? Oh God. Oh _fuck_.

Um.

—

Wow. Yeah, she is really hot, isn’t she? _Sexy_—

Yeah.

A pause and then she says, ‘Are you two friends now? He was with you at the pool earlier—’

‘Yeah,’ he replies, hoping it’s true.

She frowns for a moment, then nods. ‘I should probably apologize to him then.’

Ok, that makes _no sense_. ‘Why?’ he demands.

She shrugs, making her magnificent tits wobble distractingly. ‘I don’t know. Like, all of a sudden Tommy H. and Carol weren’t his friends anymore and everyone just decided he was a _loser_— I mean, we all thought he must have done _something_. Like, hit on Carol maybe?— but if _you’re _his friend, then maybe he _isn’t_ a loser, or, like, _a bad person_. Which would be good, because I’ve always liked him—’

Wow. Ok. Hot but _shallow_.

‘Harrington’s a _good guy_,’ he tells her. ‘A better guy than Tommy fucking _H._’

She seems to think about that for a moment, then nods. ‘Ok—’ a teasing little smile comes onto her face and she reaches for him, running her fingers through his hair and tugging gently on a curl, ‘So, do you want to do it like I did it with him?’

An odd kind of heat runs through him at the thought— but before he kisses his way down her body to bury his face in the bush of brown curls between her legs, he just checks she doesn’t think this is anything more than it is— a bit of _fun_. The way she seems to care about his opinion so much is making him _worry_.

Reassured by her response he gets to work, feeling her start to come apart quickly under his tongue. She tastes good, she’s _responsive_, and it’s _hot_. Exciting. His dick’s all the way hard now, throbbing, dripping precum onto the sheets of whoever’s bed this is.

In the warm shelter of her thighs he wonders if he does it like Harrington, if he moves his lips, his tongue like the brunet, if he uses his hands the way the other guy does—

She claws at him when she comes, fake nails catching at his scalp and the back of his neck, making him cringe and have to fight down the urge to fight her off, definitely dragging him out of the moment. He pulls away, wiping his spit and her slick from his face with a hand that he then wipes across the sheets.

Chelsea lies there all spreadeagled like a dead frog for a moment, panting in deep breaths and shaking every now and then with aftershocks. He looks at her, thinks that she’s still _hot_, but his interest is definitely waning.

Maybe he should go find some other girl to suck his dick?

Maybe he should have just stayed home? Watching shitty TV with Max would have to be better than this.

A moment later she breathes out, ‘Let me—’ and spits on her hand before reaching for his dick. It firms back up under her confident strokes, but other than the physicality of it this is _not _a sexy moment. She’s still lying there making no attempt to do anything other than stroke him off. She’s not playing with his balls, not trying to kiss him, not kissing his neck, not bringing those perfect tits up where he can bury his face in them, not even trying to look sexy for him. Just jacking him like his dick’s a candlestick and she’s a bored maid trying to polish it as quickly as she can.

Fuck.

—


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For homophobic language, homophobia, sexist language, ableist language, slut-shaming language, Tommy H being Tommy H, violence, explicit child abuse, Neil being fucking Neil- if I missed any please let me know.
> 
> So, welcome to the violence portion of Billy's wild evening, to go with the sex portion last time...
> 
> By the way this universe is pretty much entirely AU now, and also based entirely on the show and not anything else- just letting you know. Also tags might be getting updated soon. Parts of the plot are coalescing nicely in my head. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading the fic- and hopefully humouring the levels of self-indulgence it might collapse into- I'm so very grateful!

Later he goes outside to smoke and ignore the bellowing bullshit of the boys over by the keg and wonder what the fuck he’s doing with his life. That was not—

Anyway. He’s unsatisfied, still antsy, now feeling kind of grimy— even though he washed his face and hands after leaving Chelsea in the bedroom while she was pulling that little dress back on.

Not the best night he’s ever had.

He also feels weirdly guilty, though he has no idea _why_. Like he’s done something he shouldn’t have, like he’ll get in _trouble_ if it gets found out.

What he needs is a _drink_.

He flicks his cigarette butt out into the garden and saunters over to the keg— Huh. There’s Tommy H.— just as Caroless and she had been Tommyless earlier.

The guy looks completely fucking _wasted_— No, not just wasted, fucking _sick _or something. Shadows under his glassy, red-rimmed eyes, paler even than usual aside from the flush of the alcohol, hair not just a mess but a fucking _greasy_ mess— And he’s laughing like the world’s ending, flailing around with no coordination as he bounces off the other guys by the keg, pushing them out of the way so he can drink straight from the tap without even attempting a keg stand.

‘He and Sheryl broken up or something?’ he asks one of the other, vaguely familiar, guys. Todd or Ted or Thadd or Chad or something.

Tommy looks up at the sound of his voice and he has a second to think, _oh shit_, before the guy is lunging at him. ‘What the fuck is your problem!’ he roars as he dodges, and again, as somehow Tommy catches himself before he falls over and comes bouncing back, lunging at him again.

Instead of answering Tommy lets out a snarl of mindless fury and keeps coming, pushing him, trying to knock him over. It’s easy, _too easy_, to keep his feet, but somehow he still finds himself losing ground under the assault, the dark haired guy pushing the two of them away from the house and out into the darkness at the end of the backyard.

Ok. This is _pissing _him off, and you know what? In the absence of a good fuck a _fight _will do. He pushes back the next time Tommy lunges at him, ‘You’re being a fucking _retard_!’

Tommy’s snarl of fury gets a shriller edge to it, before the guy finally starts forming actual _words_. Except the words make no sense since they are, ‘Carol _saw you_!’ and then an attempt at a punch.

‘Carol saw me _what, _you sack of shit?!’

‘You think I don’t know? _We _don’t know? We _know_,’ the guy babbles, between attempts to hit him. ‘I bet he’s just _gagging for it_ too. Fucking _cocksucking_ little _slut_. We’ve all seen your dick Hargrove, it’s not _that_ big. I bet you leave him _unsatisfied_. I bet he’s out there on his knees for psycho Byers the moment you turn your back— that’s probably why that _cunt_ Wheeler dumped him. She probably got sick of sharing the guy she’d rather have with—'

There are thoughts. He can feel the edge of them, but they don’t get any clearer. All he knows is he’s getting fucking _furious_. He catches the guy on one uncoordinated lunge and shakes him, hissing out, ‘Explain what the fuck crawled up your ass and died.’

Tommy laughs, sounding completely fucking _deranged_. ‘What, like you crawled up Stevie’s? Don’t get too fucking _attached_. He’s _easy_, you know. He’ll be on his knees for some other dumb fuck with a bigger cock the moment you’ve got your back turned.’

—

The next thing he’s aware of is being dragged off Tommy by a pack of potato-faced jocks. He can feel his body struggling, trying fight them off so he can go back to trying to beat the dark-haired guy’s face all the way through his fucking skull. ‘_Jesus_ he’s strong,’ he hears someone say.

He almost gets free, but then someone’s got him by the hair and is _dragging_ him away, and no matter how much he flails and tries to hit the guys with their hands on him and claws at the ground he finds himself going.

Through a forest of chattering people he sees glimpses of Tommy on the ground, face a mess of blood and bruises— and a surge of _disappointment_ flows through him as he sees the guy move, hears him groan, sees Carol push her way through the crowd and help her boyfriend sit up.

The crowd closes around the pair as he’d dragged back over to where the keg is and almost _thrown_ into a lawn chair. When he tries to get up and go back after Tommy one of the potato-faces pushes him back down, then hands him a beer. ‘Look man, I have no idea what that was about and we all know _he_ started it, but I’d appreciate you not trying to kill someone in my backyard. Ok?’

‘He’s a fucking _asshole_,’ he snarls, taking a deep swig from the bottle.

‘No argument from me,’ the guy—_Brad Dailey_?— says, ‘Still think that might have been a bit of an overreaction though.’

‘He fucking _deserved it_,’ he hisses as he fishes out his cigarettes, wincing at the pain in his raw knuckles.

‘You wanna tell me what he did?’ the guy asks, accepting a cigarette when he offers.

He lights them both then sits back in the chair, inhaling deep and exhaling ‘Nope,’ on a cloud of smoke.

‘Fair enough,’ the guys says, glancing down the end of the yard where Carol and a couple other guys are helping Tommy to his feet. ‘Just tell me if it’s the kind of thing that means I shouldn’t be inviting him around anymore.’

‘You shouldn’t invite him around anymore because he’s a _fucking loser_,’ he snaps.

‘But he didn’t do anything to one of the girls or anything?’ the guy checks.

He snorts out a breath. ‘_Limpdick_ little prick— but _nah. _Not as far as I know.’

‘Good,’ the guy says, reaching over and slapping him on the back as if they’re actual _friends_. ‘Now if I leave you here you gonna promise not to go back to trying to turn that _attempted_ into a _homicide?_’

He watches as Carol, Tommy, and at least one of the guys she was dancing with earlier come staggering past. The dark-haired guy is a _mess_— a surge of satisfaction goes through him— nose obviously broken, possibly cheekbone too—

One of the jocks he thinks dragged him off earlier lingers for a moment, gesturing at Tommy with his head and telling their host, ‘Dan’s going to drive them to the hospital.’

He waits until the little procession disappears inside the house then turns back to Brad, ‘Looks like I won’t have the chance now, doesn’t it?’

‘God Hargrove, you’re fucking _psycho_,’ the guy says with an admiring laugh, like it’s a fucking _compliment._ Fucking freak.

‘Yeah, well your party’s been _killer_,’ he says, draining the rest of the beer then handing the guy the empty bottle, ‘but I think I’m gonna get out of here.’

He feels sick and furious the entire drive back home, hands shaking on the wheel, knuckles burning where he split them. It’s like a storm in his head— the same old storm as always— the same _fucking_— it was like this that night he _hurt _Harrington— except not quite so bad. Right now—

Fuck.

When he pulls up outside the house he smokes three cigarettes in quick succession, trying to make his heartbeat slow down, trying to calm the heavy, angry, bullish pants of breath he’s sucking in through his nose.

Of course, fuck his life, fucking _Neil_ is waiting for him in the lounge when he finally staggers inside. Susan’s not there. Max— he thinks maybe he sees movement in the shadows of the hall, but his attention is soon all on his old man. ‘Where have you been?’ Neil asks, getting to his feet in that measured way that tells him he’s in _trouble_.

‘I was _out_,’ he snaps before he can stop himself.

‘Out doing _what?_’ the man hisses, getting all up in his face. Fuck it, he should have _known_— His dad’s been quiet. _Good_, almost, good like the time the man broke his arm when he was seven, good like the time the man knocked his mom unconscious a month before she left, good like when Neil knocked out his two front baby teeth, good like after the man finally came home days later and found him in the house with poor uncle Harry’s rotting corpse, good like— and it _never_ lasts. Whatever causes it, remorse if that’s it, _guilt_— it always just reverts, only it reverts worse than even the usual state of things. He thinks his dad finds being _good_ incredibly frustrating.

‘Look at you,’ Neil continues, and just keeps coming, stalking towards him so he’s backing up, ending up pressed against the door like some _weak_ little— ‘Split lip, split knuckles, and look at the mess you’ve made of that fancy faggot _mop_ you have on your head— when I was your age no man who could call himself a _real man_ would ever dream of prancing around with those girly, frou-frou curls. You wouldn’t have made it in the army _boy_, they would have beaten the _pansy _out of you inside a week— What have you _really been doing_? Getting caught fucking some other man’s whore? Yeah, that’d be right— morals of an alley cat. One of these days you’ll get one of them pregnant— if they don’t give you something that makes that little pecker of yours drop off— then who’ll have to take care of the bitch and her brat? That’s right, _me._ We’ve talked about this before boy, you gotta grow up, you gotta be a _man_, learn to take some responsibility— like you with that car. Wrecking it. I always knew you weren’t—’

He can smell his father’s breath, sour, foul, rank with bourbon on top of badly cared for teeth. Neil’s right up in his face now, almost pressed chest-to-chest, and he just knows how this night is going to end, him bruised, and beyond bruised _diminished_ like he is every time he gives way under the weight of his father’s fucking _bullshit_ and the storm is still raging in his head and—

‘Fucking _shut up_!’ he snarls, lashing out before he can think, _shoving_ Neil away from him. ‘You think I give a fuck about your opinion, old man?’

Neil swings, of course he does, and muscle memory makes him want to just take the hit, freeze up, but _something’s_ welling up in him and making him _dodge_, come back up and plant both hands on his father’s chest and _push_ as hard as he can.

Neil stumbles back, looking _stunned_, before regaining his footing to come lurching at him. It’s like— it’s—

His body starts to _burn_, lines of fire everywhere, and it _hurts_ like he’s starting to come apart, and he recoils from the sensation into a forward lunge, meeting his dad face to face, not flinching, not ducking as the man swings. Neil stops, fist in the air in front of his nose.

The man’s eyes are wide, flickering from his face to the fist and back again. ‘I fucking _dare you_, old man,’ he breathes out, teeth bared, teeth feeling heavy and sharp in his mouth— he thinks his father’s eyes flick down to the grimace before Neil _pales_ and the fist drops, the man backing away, backing away, then turning and stalking from the room as if nothing even happened.

A moment later Max is rushing into the room just as his legs give way under him and he collapses to the floor. ‘Billy!’ she hisses, ‘Oh my God _are you ok?_ Did he hurt you?’

He feels too empty-headed to do anything but shake his head, sitting there until her tugging has him helping her drag him over to the couch. She disappears then comes back a moment later with a beer in one hand and a dish towel full of ice in the other. She hands him the drink but keeps the homemade icepack, holding it against the places where Tommy hit him. ‘What happened?’ she keeps asking, ‘You look all beat up. I told you not to do anything _stupid_!’

Eventually his mind starts working well enough to attempt words— though obviously not well enough to attempt _sensible_ words, because the first thing he manages is, ‘I think that Robin chick might be a dyke’— which, yeah, is a thought that’s been brewing away at the back of his mind since this afternoon, but isn’t exactly _relevant_ right now.

‘Oh thank God,’ she breathes, ‘It’s _so hard_ to keep hating her—’

He frowns at her, ‘Huh?’

She shakes her head. ‘Never mind. Not important— Did you at least have fun at the party?’


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For discussions of homophobia, fear of violent homophobic reprisal, fear of parental rejection, mentions of gross men perving on young girls- please do tell me if I've missed any.
> 
> ALSO, this chapter is from Robin's perspective- originally I was going to have this as a side story and to keep the whole fic from Billy's perspective, but I'm currently thinking we're going to have to have a Steve POV digression at some point in the future to make some of my ideas work, so I decided I might as well add Robin too- Um, yeah. Anyway, I hope you like. Thanks, as always, for reading! You're all awesome!
> 
> (This is why you don't treat the best friend like shit, Billy. Sigh.)

Being friends with Steve Harrington is not at all like she expected. Actually, she never really expected to be friends with Steve Harrington in the first place, so she never properly thought about what it would be like being friends with him, so she doesn’t really have expectations to be _subverted, _it’s just that it seems—

Hm.

It might just be that Steve Harrington is different than she expected. Which feels kind of unfair sometimes. All that time she spent watching the guy because of Tammy and now it’s like she was watching an _entirely different person_. Where did the real Steve Harrington go? Has he been replaced with a pod person or something? Or was the old Steve the pod person?

She knows which way she’d prefer it. New Steve is— Actually, he’s a real sweetheart. Which makes her sound like her gran or something. “That Richie Lewis is a real sweetheart.” “That Zach Everton is a real sweetheart.” “He might not look it, but Chief Hopper is a real sweetheart…”

Steve Harrington is a real sweetheart. Also he’s kind of a food snob, which is more like Old Steve, but still not what she would have expected. She told him her mom was cooking tuna noodle casserole for dinner the other day and he looked at her like her mom was going to serve her boiled rat. Then, the next day, she could swear the tin of homemade cookies and plate of blueberry muffins he gave her were actually meant as some kind of _food parcel_.

Maybe it’s because he can actually _cook_. Who knew Steve Harrington could cook? She didn’t know. She thinks maybe _no one knew_. Other than Tommy H. and Carol—

Ugh. She does not want to think about _that_. Ew. Imagine— Tommy H.— _Ew_.

At first she was more— Hm— Less _surprised_, more absolutely _gobsmacked_— but now she’s had a few days to think about what he said and they’re jerks. More than jerks— which she already knew, already pretty much _said_, but the more she thinks about it the worse it gets. Like, it seems like they _used_ him. _Sexually_. Like, _exploited him _almost. Weird and gross and—

_Jerks_.

They do not deserve any of Steve’s amazing cooking ever again— like that first night, after the crepes, when Henderson and Erica showed up to try and convince everyone that Billy Hargrove is a zombie and the argument headed long into the night until they were all hungry again— and sick of Steve being all _He’s not a zombie, Henderson_ with complete conviction, while also not giving any suggestion as to what Hargrove might be if _zombie_ is off the table— guy’s something alright, and that something is something more than _just_ a complete grade A _a-hole_— and he decided to make them dinner.

Mac and cheese, and they were all pretty pleased about that, all waiting for him to get the box out— but instead what he does is make mac and cheese from _scratch_. Who does that? Worst still it was the most amazing— Oh my God it was good. _Delicious_. _So _delicious— like, _restaurant level_ mac and cheese— which is not a thing that should be possible. Mac and cheese is not supposed to be that good.

It’s like— _comfort food_, or something, isn’t it? Rich, salty, not exactly good for you—

Being Steve Harrington’s friend is supremely confusing.

He’s supportive, he’s funny, he’s _kind, _he cooks for you— He’d be the perfect boyfriend if a boyfriend was something she was ever after. But she’s not— and he was so _good_ about that, even before he told her he’s—

Wow. Oh, wow. Steve Harrington is _bisexual_.

Every now and then she forgets and then remembers and feels like someone is pulling the rug out from under her again.

_Steve Harrington _likes to kiss_ **boys,**_ even though _she _doesn’t. Not that he’ll tell her the kind of boys he wants to kiss, oh no. Her new best friend is being really squirrely about that.

Not that she noticed at first— because all of a sudden she had someone she could talk about girls to, and talk about girls they did. It’s so— Is this what it’s like, to be normal? To just be able to say so-and-so is so _hot_, and that not being weird or creepy or gross or—

So maybe she got a bit carried away. _They _got carried away. The night after the amazingly interesting trip to the supermarket she’d invited herself back around to the Harrington house— maybe, just a little bit, kind of testing her welcome. Because she really, really, _really_ wants this friendship she’s suddenly found to be _real_, but part of her thinks the universe is playing some terrible cosmic joke on her. You know, here you go Robin Buckley— enjoy being a lesbian in small-town America and almost finding the best friendship you’ve ever had with the most unexpected person— except we’re going to tear the latter away from you and never give it back. Only, so far, Steve is still her friend.

Steve lets her call him _Stevie_— which is apparently what Tommy H. and Carol called him when they were alone. _Weird_. Cool though. _Ha_ _ha_, she is probably the only person allowed to call Steve Harrington _Stevie_— unless his parents do. Not that she’d know. They seem to be seriously AWOL— but that’s what everyone always said, wasn’t it? Always a party at Harrington’s house because his parents are always out of town. Poor guy— she’d hate not seeing her parents for even, like, a _week_.

Anyway, the night after the _supermarket trip _Steve had cooked her some chicken casserole thing with a French name she really should be able to remember and they’d drunk three bottles of cheap French red wine and laid on the carpet in what is apparently the “den” and ended up kind of, embarrassingly, _rating_ all the girls from Hawkins High—

Not cool, really, she knows. It’s _objectification_ and all— but it was so _good_ being able to talk about it. To giggle about it. To _argue_ about it— because no way is Nancy Wheeler a _ten_, even if she’s apparently not so much of a priss as she looks. Or Chelsea Cunningham. Chelsea Cunningham is _not_ that hot—

_Actually, turns out she was wrong on that one, but **still**_—

Honestly Chelsea Cunningham used to be her friend up to grade five, then, all of a sudden, she was a _loser_ and the girl— previously nice and smart and _ambitious_ enough to talk about working at NASA or something when she grew up— had turned into. Well. _That_. Stupidly hot, but such a _bitch_. _Ignoring_ her— and the way she said “Steve” like he’s chopped liver.

Everyone knows they hooked up a few times when they were fifteen, so who is she kidding?

In the end she conceded Nancy Wheeler might be a seven or an eight when he’d had the grace to concede the same about Tammy— who she knows damn well he never hooked up with, because if he _had_— No girl Steve Harrington has ever even _kissed_ is less than an eight, apparently, no matter personality, looks, personal habits, or tendency to be a complete raging _bitch_ to him recently.

Since Billy Hargrove arrived in town so many previously sensible— if even only a _little bit_— people have turned into complete morons.

More on that later, though.

The sad thing is that he wasn’t even rating them so highly out of some bullshit, competitive, “_Steve Harrington_ would never lower himself to kiss anyone less than perfect” thing. No. He actually seems to _like them all_.

Being “really sweet to her cat” is not a good reason to rate _Amy __Wójcik _an eight, Jesus Steve. She’s like a _six_— Wow, she is turning into a teenage boy. Reducing girls to their physical appearance— except not really. Amy’s _cute enough_, but that cat is the only thing that girl is _ever_ nice to—

Ok, yeah, she might have had a _tiny_ crush on her in sixth grade, long before Tammy, but—

A lot of the girls she’s ever had crushes on either seem to hate her on sight, hate her on acquaintance, or don’t notice she exists. It’s _hard_— and getting to complain about it is so _freeing_, but also _easy to get carried away_.

In some ways they have surprisingly similar tastes— at least as far as the sixes, sevens and eights go. Smart, cute, sweet— then there’s the girls you’d have to be completely stupid not to realise are stupidly hot— but then you get to the matter of _personal taste. _Like, she would not rate Belle Rowley— captain of the girls wrestling team— a _nine_. Belle Rowley who effortlessly knocked out Dan Caulfield when he grabbed her nearly non-existent boobs and made an obnoxious _honk honk_ sound. Belle Rowley is _terrifying_— that should _not_ be so hot, Steve.

Even when she’d though Belle might be a lesbian— Which, so_ not_. Carol had caught her with Zach Everton under the bleachers and then told_ everyone_ and now they’re openly _dating_— she would have not rated Belle anything higher than a _five_. Scary does not do it for her.

Oh God, she thinks scary does it for Steve.

Anyway, before she forces herself to think about all of— _that_, she wants a few more minutes to luxuriate in having a friend like Steve.

Who knew Steve could be a friend like Steve?

He really was kind of an asshole at school— though, she will admit, on pain of over-inflating his ego and after thinking about it a bit, he was never anywhere near as bad as either Tommy H. or Carol. Not _nice_, or at least not nice all the time— and wow did he _never_ take class seriously, but the crueller pranks and taunts and gossip could always be traced back to those two— particularly if the focus of whatever it was never did anything to anyone.

Though if they had done something— either to him, or (especially) to the other two, then it was more likely to be Steve who instigated— and he rarely balked at joining in, always so happy with Tommy H. and Carol by his side—

Oh. Oh now she feels kinda _sad_ for him.

She does not want to feel sad about _anything_ involving Tommy H. or Carol.

It doesn’t matter, she may be absolutely _never_ going to put her mouth anywhere near his ass but she is going to be the best friend he ever had— because she really does think he’s going to try to do the same for her. So weird. Her life is just _so weird_.

The way he talked about finding her a girlfriend, his disappointment that he didn’t know of any other girls in town who like girls, the way he was so sure she’s going to be going to college and that when she does she’ll find an _awesome girl **almost** good enough_ for her, because she is apparently absolutely _amazing_.

No one other than her parents has ever thought she was _amazing_ before— and she’s not sure her parents will still think she’s amazing if they ever find out.

She’s so scared. She doesn’t want to think about how scared she is, has been for so long, but she is _terrified_ they’ll find out and that when they do she won’t be her dad’s _Honey-Pumpkin_ anymore, her mom’s _Little Bird_, that they won’t smile when they see her, always ask her about her day, _listen _to her even if she’s talking bullshit, act like she can do anything she puts her mind to, think she’s good enough to go to school for her music if she wants, or to film school if that’s what she ends up choosing, that the family dinners they both make sure they have time for— even though they’re both so busy— will stop happening, that the college fund they each started separately a couple of months after they met and then combined when they got married will suddenly dry up— and it’s not the thought of the money disappearing that upsets her, just the proof that they knew each knew the other was the _one_ almost at once and that they knew they’d have a kid and they were so sure that kid would be _amazing_—

Yeah, she is so, so, so _scared_— and having a friend like Steve isn’t enough to make that fear go away— no matter how amazing _he_ is he could never replace her parents for her, no one could— but the way he responded when he found out has given her the first taste of _hope_ she thinks she’s ever had that things might actually turn out ok.

Eventually.

—

Still, she does not want to think about it too much.

She also doesn’t want to think about the question of _what should she do about the Billy Hargrove thing_, but she probably should. Not the _is Billy Hargrove a zombie_ question— because, you know, zombie or not the guy is— _horrible_. He’s just _horrible_.

Like, the _worst_.

Like, _just as bad as Tommy H_.

Maybe _worse _than Tommy H.

He’s rude and mean and crude and actually, legitimately, _scary_. Like, there have been times when she’s actually worried he might _hurt her_. And there’s the way he hurt _Steve_— everyone heard about that. Admittedly everyone seemed to find it hilariously funny and at the time she, personally, hadn’t cared, but now she does and—

And the way he acts like a complete _jackass_ to pretty much every grown man and most of the boys he meets. Poor Mr Duvall— possibly one of the sweetest men in town, having that puffed up little— and after all that stuff with the old man’s son, Jared— Everyone might have turned up at the funeral after the guy finally wiped himself out speeding out by the quarry, but they were either pretending to mourn or doing it out of respect for his father, not Jared himself. _Ass_— and then for Mr Duvall to have to deal with someone like Hargrove, someone so like Jared.

She does not like Billy Hargrove. Like, at _all_.

Not that he likes her either. Oh God does he _not like her_.

She caught him looking when she was— Wow. Thinking about it, what exactly was she doing? Feeling poor Steve up, in _public_. She can feel her face heat. At the time she was thinking she was kind of _teasing_ Carol. The way the other girl had been looking at her, looking at _Steve_— she _deserved_ it, deserved worse than seeing someone actually touch her— _whatever Steve was to her_— when she’s not allowed to anymore. But then she caught Billy Hargrove looking at her like he wanted to _rip her head off_.

The way he is with Steve—

She’d been suspicious by the time Steve had dropped her off home that day, but by the end of _today_, at the pool— The way he’d _looked_ at Steve’s near-naked body— Billy Hargrove has a _crush_ on Steve. If you can call it a crush. _Crush_ seems too innocent for something that guy might feel—

And it would all be fine, it would all be good, she would _perfectly _enjoy watching him pine sadly from afar— except she thinks it’s reciprocated.

Steve’s so _attentive _to Hargrove, that’s the thing. So _sweet_ to that absolutely undeserving _prick_. Nervous, but not so much in a _fearful _way— And she’s caught him _looking_—

Hands. Always the hands. Hargrove does anything with his hands anywhere near Steve and Steve’s like a dog watching its owner waving around a piece of steak.

Ugh.

If she’s right she does not blame Steve for avoiding the question of what kind of guys is he into. Who would want to admit to being into that violent _psycho_? Other than at least half the girls in town—

But they don’t really know him, do they? They’ve never really spent any time trapped in a confined space with the guy at his dickish best— though maybe they at least have the benefit of him not being _jealous_ of them.

She thinks that’s it— maybe not all of it. She’s not vain enough to assume Hargrove would magically like her if she wasn’t allowed to touch Steve whenever she wants to, but she thinks the fact that she _can_ and he _can’t _probably isn’t helping things.

She’s not going to help him out either. She’s not going to let on to Steve that his _Billy_ thing might not be one-sided— because Hargrove is an absolute _prick_, an _undeserving_ prick, and she knows if the blond ever gets his hands on Steve then Steve is going to get _hurt_. Hurt even worse than by Tommy H. and Carol. Hurt maybe not just emotionally— she can see Hargrove freaking out about being into a guy and really, seriously _hurting _the guy in question. It’s too dangerous. Steve could get _killed_. It’s not _safe_—

No way is she doing anything to get her friend hurt like that. _No way_.

So what should she do? Directly running interference seems kind of not a very _friend_ thing to do, and it also might lead her into direct conflict with Hargrove— which is not something she wants. He is, like, the _poster boy_ for the kind of guy who is not afraid to hit girls— So maybe she should just watch? Be supportive if Steve ever confides in her, but also not _encourage_ him in any way, at all, whatsoever. That seems about right.

Maybe she should try to find him a boyfriend the way he’s determined they can find her a girlfriend. There has to be at least one other gay— or _bisexual_— guy in town other than Billy Hargrove— Oh God. _Billy Hargrove is_— at least _Stevesexual_, if not actually bisexual or gay— That’s even harder to believe than the fact _Steve Harrington_ is bisexual. What kind of world is she living in? Nothing makes sense anymore.

Also, actually, there are real, legitimate, living _monsters_ out there. So maybe surprise gay/bisexual guys shouldn’t be so, hah, _surprising_.

Why aren’t there more _lesbians_? This seems deeply unfair.

Oh, hey, when she hangs out at Steve’s they could call it the _Hawkins Homosexual(-ish) Hangout at Harrington’s House_. Quintuple H for the win.

Though the two of them are hardly a definitive collection of Hawkins less than _heterosexual_ inhabitants. Not that she wants Billy Hargrove hanging out with her and Steve. Ick.

She’s not sure about Will Byers though. Is the kid even _gay_? Everyone seems to think he is but it’s not like they’ve heard it from the horse’s mouth—

So, for now Quintuple H will just have to remain a very, highly, _selective_ club.

—

She’s kind of being a loser. Well, she _is_ a loser. She was _always_ a loser. Robin Buckley, loser queen of Hawkins—

Even _Barb Holland_ was considered less of a loser than her, and no one really liked Barb— Ok. That might, strictly speaking, not entirely be _true_. Nancy Wheeler liked Barb. The other prissy, do-gooder kids liked Barb. _She_ just didn’t like Barb that much.

Maybe it was just the— at time _intense—_ sapphic vibes between her and Nancy and the fact that she’d sometimes, maybe, wondered if the two of them actually were a _couple_— which, ok, yeah, maybe she was a bit _jealous_— until the whole unexpected Nancy + Steve thing. Anyway.

Also Barb was a bitch to her.

She’d only been trying— oh, so _surreptitiously_— to see if she’d found a fellow traveller— asking the kind of questions that only a like-minded girl would have understood, or at least she’d _thought_, but Barb had freaked out and gotten really _nasty_.

Anyway. Still sad the girl was dead.

Still _weird_ that apparently she’d died in Steve’s pool, or something. That part of the story isn’t clear. What was clear, at least until today, is that Steve has an _awesome_ pool that she could be swimming in without worrying about girls catching her _looking_. Even if she never looks. She’s so _careful_ not to look—

Ok. _Until today_, but in her defence being wrapped around Steve, him knowing and _supporting_, had made her feel weirdly _invincible_. Like it was ok, as long as it was just them. That she could be _honest_.

Anyway. Until today it was _Steve has an awesome pool that he won’t let anyone use for no good reason_. In the last little-over-a-week since Russian codes, Russian bases, _monsters_, and the birth of a beautiful friendship she has caught him standing over the water and staring into it with a completely out of place and _creepy_ horror on half a dozen separate occasions. Always the same place too.

He’d told her about the Barb thing— which she’d thought was stupid since as far as she could see there was no evidence of there being anything untoward with the pool— Shows what she knows. _Jesus_, the look on Hargrove’s _face_—

Anyway. The _get Billy Hargrove to come around and convince Steve there’s nothing wrong with his pool _plan had actually been Erica’s idea. In part because three out of four members of the _Is Billy Hargrove a zombie?_ club were getting sick of seeing the cool blue water on the recent hot, sticky days and having the fourth member freak out if they even remotely _suggested_ they might just dip a toe in. Just a _toe_ Steve, nothing more.

The excuse had been that Hargrove would have to strip down to his swim trunks in his capacity as lifeguard, so they could see if he was turning blue or purple or green or _rotting_ anywhere.

Steve had _not_ been onboard, but they are all getting used to the idea that if Erica _wants_ something Erica is going to _get_ that something and they all better just accept that and stop fighting.

“She’s going to end up going to Harvard or Yale or Stanford or something and running Wall Street, I just know it,” Steve had muttered to her while they watched Erica climb onto the back of Henderson’s bike to be delivered back home.

“Or becoming President,” she’d added.

He’d just nodded.

Anyway, the _pool plan_ had backfired. Because apparently Steve isn’t being an idiot and there _is_ something wrong with his pool. Something that made Billy Hargrove freak out and made the little— possibly gay— Byers boy get upset and all the other weird kids start fussing over him.

Maybe it’s haunted by Barb’s ghost? Would that be cool or supremely _uncool_? Hm. The existence of ghosts _would_ be cool— but the existence of ghosts in her _friend’s_ pool would not be. And the existence of _Barb’_s ghost seems kind of _sad_. So, in the balance, _uncool_.

Are they going to have to exorcise Steve’s pool?

Is she going to end up inadvertently joining another club? She’s already a member of the _People who know about Hawkins weirdness_ club, the _Is Billy Hargrove a zombie?_ club, the _Quintuple H_ club, and now the _Exorcisers of Steve’s pool_ club. Wow. She has suddenly developed the _weirdest_ social life.

_And why does Billy Hargrove’s angry little sister hate her so much? What has she ever done to the girl? It’s so confusing._

It is one thing, and _one thing only_, in the guy’s favour that he seems to care so much about the redhead, seems so eager and willing to protect her— though if she had a brother and he started shouting at some gross old man in public who was staring at her ass—

Like, if she _thinks_ about it it’s a cool thing to do, the kind of thing most guys just ignore, but also _so unbelievably embarrassing_. And the girl was so relaxed about it, like she’s just used to him—

Ugh. Billy Hargrove hurts her head.

Anyway, how is she going to have time to hang out with all these fellow losers and deal with all this eldritch shit if she gets another job? Well, the plan so far is to have her and Steve get a job at the same place— since, so far, it’s unclear if the mall’s being rebuilt and if they’ll still have their old job if it is— so that’s one loser accounted for.

There’s always a couple openings at _Family Video_, which sounds _perfect_ for her and _absolutely terrible_ for him, so fingers crossed. She doesn’t think she’s ever met someone even remotely her age less interested in movies. Or even TV.

You go “Hey Steve, you want to watch something?” And he goes, “sure,” then has no opinion on what to watch. “I dunno, whatever you/Dustin/Erica/everyone else wants to watch,” is his stock answer whenever she asks him to pick something. “What do you like?” earns her a shrug. “Do you actually like movies and TV at _all_?” gets something along the line of “I dunno. They’re ok. A bit boring sometimes— better if whoever I’m with is enjoying them.” And to the question of “_Oh my God Steve, why are they boring?”_ another shrug and “the people in them don’t make sense. I can never really tell what they’re feeling about anything.” Which just seems to her to mean he has only ever watched crappy things with crappy writing because everyone he knows has crappy taste.

This she vows to fix, but no joy so far.

—Also, then you ask him what actually happened in the movie and he’s got everything, like, _totally wrong._ What the hell— She thought maybe the _Back to the Future_ thing was a fluke, but apparently not?—

Parts (mainly Henderson and Erica) of the _Is Billy Hargrove a zombie_? club have discussed maybe having a zombie movie marathon to make sure they know all the possible signs to watch out for if Billy Hargrove _is_ a zombie— but Steve thinks it’s a bad idea after everything that’s happened recently, and that Erica’s too _young_, and even if she gets him to come around she’s worried he’ll just wander off and make them all homemade salted caramel popcorn in the middle of it like he did when Henderson decided they were all watching _The Neverending Story_— Weird kid, he started humming along to the theme song and looking all _misty eyed_.

The salted caramel popcorn had also been amazingly good.

She still can’t believe _Steve Harrington_ is such a good cook.

_She still can’t believe **Steve Harrington** is rapidly becoming the best friend she’s ever had, **ever**._

This town really is so _weird_.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For homophobic language, some evidence of internalised homophobia, mentions of the possibility of violent homophobic reprisals, homophobia in general, some mention of HIV/AIDS, mentions of slut-shaming, mentions of child abuse and domestic abuse, mentions of suicide- please, please do tell me if I've missed any.
> 
> Billy's thought processes can be a bit... interesting. All those things to deny and refuse to think about...   
Anyway, hope you enjoy, and thanks as always for reading, commenting and leaving kudos! Also, stay safe any fellow Aussies up North in Queensland and NSW. You have my sympathies.

He falls asleep easy, but his dreams— It’s like he can’t escape them. Every time he claws his way to the surface, wakes panting, sweating, _terrified,_ they reach for him, grab him, claw him back down—

At least once, when he’s lying, trapped in the place between waking and sleeping, he thinks he should be dreaming of his father, of fucking _Neil_ and all the things the man has done, or even of turning into the _monster_, of his body coming apart around him, but, like so often recently, in his dreams he is trapped the Upside Down.

Sometimes he’s in his car, huddling, humming along to the memory of songs he’s forgetting the lyrics to. Sometimes he’s walking the dead town. Sometimes he’s pacing back and forth, back and forth, muttering, always muttering— ‘She’s safe. They’re both safe. I know they are— I _know they are_— You didn’t win— You _hear me_?! You didn’t win you sack of shit! I’ll find you— I will— I _will_. I’ll find you, and when I do— No. No, no, no, no, no— This isn’t— this isn’t—’

And sometimes he’s in what he now recognises as Harrington’s gross pool— except there’s no water, just— _rot_. And he comes there, he remembers, though he doesn’t know _how_ he can remember it, to see the body. He thinks it’s a girl. Not much flesh left now, mainly bones, bones and rot and shreds of cloth and he talks to her, sometimes because she’s the only human thing he’s seen in _so, so long_—

When he’s awake, awake properly— before he goes to check on Max and finds her asleep on the couch— he can’t help feeling kind of stupid. Brain obviously having taken in what Harrington said about that Barb? girl and spitting it out into his nightmares.

By breakfast fucking Neil has decided that Susan deserves her car back. Fucking Neil has also decided to pretend he doesn’t exist— not so much as a glance his way, just complete verbal and physical avoidance. It’s almost funny.

Be more funny if he had a ride to the pool. He’s working until lunch today and he doesn’t think not showing up after all that not showing up he did so recently is going to do him many favours as far as staying employed is concerned.

He’d get Susan to give him a ride, but the moment they’ve all finished eating she— and her car keys— are off doing _something_ with the old bastard, so it’s just him and Max. Like usual.

‘I’ll call Steve,’ is her solution to the problem.

A lot of— _thoughts_— come surging at him at the suggestion, but—

_But_.

Who else is there?

It’ll be fine. It’ll be _cool_. It’ll— He just won’t think about _anything_ that fucking prick Tommy insinuated and it’ll be—

—

Fuck.

—

He needs to get some more cigarettes.

He sits on the couch and ashes into an empty coffee cup, chain smoking and trying not to fidget while he waits. Yeah. Yeah— he just has to be cool. He just has to—

If he thinks about it he’s going to end up wondering what Tommy meant, and there’s no answer to that question that’s not going to make him lose his shit, so he’s _not going to think about it_.

Does he look like a faggot? Does that fucking _dead_ prick think he looks like a faggot?

No forget that. He’s not thinking about that. Not _ever_.

Anyway, beyond— _you know—_ how fucking _dare_ the guy talk like that about Harrington. Like—

Yeah. He can’t think about it. Never going to fucking think about it.

_Never_—

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Max lurking. ‘_What_?’

She bites her lip. ‘You’re being weird— I mean, _weirder_ even than usual—’

He nods. Yep. He can see that— ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s not— it’s boring fucking _guy stuff_, ok? Not anything about the Upside Down or whatever.’

A pause and then, tentatively, ‘I know it’s like, _super lame_, and I know you are way too— _you_— but if you need to— and oh my _God_ I can’t believe I’m about to say this— but, like, _talk about it—_?’

He shakes his head, ‘I cannot begin to tell you how much I do not want to do that right now.’

She blinks at him. ‘Shit. Um—’

‘It’s fine Maxine, don’t worry about it—’

Which is when Harrington pulls up and his mind decides to replay the words _cocksucking little slut_ in Tommy H’s fucking _irritating_ voice. Oh _God_.

He stands, lurches out of his seat really, then his hand goes reflexively to his hair, trying to smooth it down, and— _How is he actually going to be able to do this?_

_No fucking choice Hargrove, **get your fucking shit together**. _

Harrington’s waiting for him when he leaves the house, a big smile splitting those coral lips. ‘Hey!’

‘Hey,’ he returns, feeling awkward as fuck.

A little frown appears between dark brows for a split second, ‘Everything ok?’

‘Yeah, it’s fine,’ he says, dismissive, thinks of saying something about getting into a fight or Tommy H. being a prick if the brunet asks about why his knuckles are split and his face bruised— but then he realises that they aren’t. His hands look fine. His face doesn’t even hurt— it wasn’t even bruised in the mirror when he was getting ready, was it? _Fuck_.

‘You sure?’ a glance and Harrington looks so fucking _concerned_.

It’s kind of _outrageous_, the guy’s like— There are rules, ok? Asking him _how he is_ is bad enough, but then not letting him blow the question off—

‘Sorry,’ Harrington adds, looking away, then giving him a tiny, _rueful_ smile, ‘None of my business. So, _pool_?’

Fucking Harrington, always so fucking _considerate. _

He nods, getting in the car. ‘You mind if I smoke?’

‘You’re _asking_?’ the brunet laughs, and then, before he can get _too_ offended, ‘Sure thing man, go right ahead. It’s just you and me.’

Why does his brain decide now is the right time to ask, ‘You still hang out with Wheeler and—’ his tongue trips on the name, ‘B- Byers much?’

_On his knees for psycho_—

‘Nancy and Jonathan?’ Harrington’s nose scrunches up. Fucking _Nancy_—

**_Jonathan_**.

A shrug, ‘Not really. They’re always, you know, busy with stuff— and we really don’t have that much in common, you know? Why? Do you need to talk to them about something?’

He looks away. ‘Just curious.’

‘They’re actually both pretty cool—’ the brunet offers. ‘Like, _so smart_, you know?’ Like he fucking _cares_. ‘So, if— I dunno. If this shit starts happening again, you can always go to one of them, ok? They’ll do their best to help if _I_ can’t— or you don’t want my help or something.’

‘There’s _no fucking Universe_ where I’d rather talk to _either_ of those two _losers_ than you,’ he snaps before he realises he’s going to. Jesus _Christ_, he is losing it today. For fuck’s sake—

‘Oh,’ Harrington whispers. He risks a glance at the guy and sees him pink and smiling this tiny little smile to himself.

—

The brunet clears his throat, ‘Honestly, you too, man—' Oh fuck why does that make him feel so good? ‘—Not that they’re losers. They’re really _not_, not once you get to know them—’

He snorts, disbelieving. ‘It’s _true_,’ Harrington insists.

‘You’re really not going to be able to convince me on that one,’ he tells the brunet, which makes the guy laugh for some reason.

‘Well, they’re not as cool as you, I’ll give you that.’

Harrington thinks he’s cool? _Of course Harrington thinks he’s cool, the guy’s not **completely **stupid. _

Harrington’s also still talking, ‘—thinking of going to see Heather at the hospital today if you want to come, you know, when you get off work—? I mean, you _don’t have to—_’

_Guilt_. ‘Yeah, sounds good.’ He feels like an asshole, he hasn’t even _attempted_ to find out how she is.

‘_Really_?’ Harrington clears his throat. ‘Oh, yeah, ok, _cool_. Max said you get off at lunch—?’

He confirms when he wants Harrington to pick him up then they slide back into a kind of awkward silence. _Cocksucking_— His eyes keep catching on the brunet’s mouth.

Harrington waves him goodbye when he gets out of the car, at first kind of excited and then a little awkward, and all he can think is _Jesus Christ_. Ok. _OK_. He has to stop thinking about it.

He has to— and he manages it for a while too, but the thing is— that not paying attention to the mess Tommy H. made of his thoughts means he starts thinking about _Neil_ instead.

Like, mid-morning, up in the chair, watching the kids do stupid shit, all of a sudden it occurs to him that his dad _backed down_ the night before.

He _won_.

Holy fucking hell— _He won_.

That shit’s never happened before. Neil has _never_ backed down. Not from _anyone_—

Actually, no, a couple of weeks before Uncle Harry shot himself the two men had a fucking _massive fight_ and he thinks Uncle Harry _won_. He can’t really remember, since his dad had punched him hard enough to leave him loopy and sick—

Huh.

Wait— was the reason Uncle Harry got into it with Neil because his dad had—?

Hah, He can’t remember right. He can’t even say for sure.

Fucking Neil.

Wait— if he _won_—

His dad is _not going to be ok with that_. Oh God.

Oh God—

But. _But_! If Neil starts shit again he now knows he can _win_. They both know—

Maybe that means Neil will leave him the fuck alone.

Imagine that. Neil leaving him _alone_.

Jesus.

It’s Adam’s turn in the chair after his, and as he’s getting down so the other guy can get up, the dark-haired guy says, ‘That was some fight you got into with Tommy H. last night.’

‘You heard about that?’ he wonders who else heard about it. Is he going to be getting another visit by Chief Hopper—?

‘I was _there_, man,’ the guy says, then snorts out a laugh, ‘Just for curiosity’s sake, do you recognise me from anything other than working here?’

‘The fuck’re you getting at?’ this seems like a trap. He feels himself start to tense up— Still, he keeps lingering by the chair to see what the guy has to say.

Adam nods, then laughs again, kind of ruefully. ‘We were on the basketball team together— but I already pretty much worked out you don’t remember.’

He peers up at the guy— yeah, kind of familiar. A much better looking potato-faced jock than most of them. ‘You expect me to apologize, or—?’

Adam shakes his head, ‘No way. Don’t apologize for being you. It’s— Yeah. Must drive Tommy H. up the wall. Is that what you were fighting about, the fact you don’t see him as being even _remotely_ fucking important, unlike how he sees himself?’

He shrugs, feels his face scrunch into a look of distaste. ‘He was being a fucking asshole.’

‘Yeah, but—’ a shrug of one broad, well-formed shoulder. ‘Ok, I admit. I’m _curious_, sue me. You are a tough nut to crack. I mean, I saw you hanging around with Steve yesterday— You two friends now? Because that’s what everyone’s saying?’

‘Why the fuck does _everyone_ care?’ he snaps.

‘Because it’s small-town America, the mall just collapsed, and everyone’s bored out of their minds— Anyway, it’s Steve— he’s, well, he’s always been hard to ignore— _He_ what you and Tommy H. were fighting about?’

No way is he answering _that_ fucking question, but— If Adam was on the basketball team— and, of course, the guy probably grew up here in this shithole— then maybe he can give some insight into something else that bugs him if he thinks about it. ‘What the fuck happened between those two—? I mean, I’ve heard Tommy H.’s bullshit about it, and I’ve heard some other gossip, or whatever, like I know Harrington chose Wheeler over his friends, or something, but— I don’t know— I’ve gotten to know the guy a bit recently and it’s— Yeah. Feels like there’s something else going on there.’

‘I have no fucking clue,’ the dark-haired guy answers after a moment. ‘I probably know as much as you do— no one, other than those three— Steve, Tommy H., Carol— probably actually knows. I don’t even think _Nancy Wheeler_ knows. You’re right though, it is— _weird_. The whole time growing up they were like _this_—’ the guy holds up a hand, index and middle finger crosses tightly, ‘—I mean, I’ve got friends I’ve known since before first grade, friends I trust to have my back, friends I would do a whole bunch of stupid shit for— but I _don’t_ have friends the way those three were friends. Whatever it was I think it’s pretty clear Steve did something to piss them off.’

‘Yeah, but it’s _Harrington_—’ he protests. What the fuck could the brunet do that was that bad. He’s—

Adam shrugs. ‘I don’t get it either.’

The words “He ever done anything to make you think he’s a faggot?” come tripping to the tip of his tongue, but he bites them down. _Fuck_. Jesus fucking _Christ_— if he actually said that out _loud_—

‘You ok?’ Adam asks.

‘Fine,’ he snaps, ‘I just gotta—’ he gestures vaguely away, then turns and leaves. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuck_.

Ignoring all the _everyone_ that seems to want his attention he goes and— not _hides_, not exactly— in the storage room, lighting up a cigarette the moment the door’s shut. _What the fuck was that_? Huh? Was he really going to all but tell some small-town jock that Harrington might be a faggot? There’d be a lynching. _Harrington_ would get lynched.

Fuck. He’s _shaking_. He wraps his arms around himself as he smokes, pacing back and forth in the confined space.

He’s not— Personally, he’s never found the fact that someone was a faggot to be a reason to beat them up— though, yeah, the same doesn’t go for old pervs hollering at him about the fact he looks like a girl and his cocksucking lips and offering him ten or twenty bucks to put the promise they see but he’s not offering into practice. _Those _kind of guys usually regret their life pretty soon— but faggots, the normal kind of faggots that accept “fuck off” if they try to hit on him, the ones that really aren’t trying to start shit with anyone, just trying to be left alone— those he’s never had a problem with.

He knows he’s not one. He’s always liked girls— their bodies, the way they smell, the way they _feel_ too much to be a faggot. It’s not something he ever worries about— not even _Neil_ and all his bullshit, the man’s fucking neuroses about being a _man_ have ever been able to make him doubt himself. Since the first time he got his dick wet he’s had incontrovertible evidence that he likes the ladies—

So, he’s never been frightened of faggots. He hasn’t been _friends_ with them— having a whole bunch of cocksuckers as friends is a great way to make the world think you’re a cocksucker too— but he’s left them alone, and the few times he’s caught guys hassling them, trying to _hurt_ them, he’s never felt the need to hold himself back from showing that kind of guy their _place_. Teaching them that they’re not nearly the big, strong, tough _man_ they think they are—

Which all means he’s seen firsthand the kind of shit faggots have to put up with— especially since that AIDS or whatever it is disease started killing them— and if _Harrington’s_ actually one, if that’s the reason he and Tommy H. fell out, if that’s the reason Wheeler cheated on him then dumped him for a weedy little _dweeb_ like Byers— the brunet will be in for a world of hurt when the rest of the town finds out.

He doesn’t like the idea.

Harrington’s a _good guy_. Pretty much _everyone_ thinks so— everyone not Tommy H. or Carol or shallow enough to let those two _losers_ change the way they think—

Still, if the brunet’s a _faggot_ and people find out— if he stays friends with him will they think _he’s_ a faggot too? The thought makes him _uncomfortable_. But. _BUT_. If Harrington’s a faggot the guy’s going to need someone to keep him_ safe_— winning _one_ fight against _one_ Russian doesn’t change the fact the guy is— well. Pretty much hopeless at that shit.

It’s like the little Byers boy— If he ever catches anyone giving that kid shit for being queer he’s not just going to stand back and let it happen, is he? Kid’s a good kid. Especially in comparison to the other boys—

So, if he’s willing to protect the little Byers, then he should be willing to protect _Harrington_. There’s nothing different there, it’s not like his friendship with the brunet means anything _more_ than his, whatever, with the little Byers. Does it?

No. Of course not.

Wait. Since when is he _friends_ with Harrington—

Actually, probably since the two of them drove across town together to go after a _monster_.

Huh. Harrington’s his friend. _Harrington’s _his _friend_.

Huh.

Anyway— he’s probably getting ahead of himself. _Does he even know Harrington is a faggot?_

No.

It’s funny— he _saw_ Harrington’s eyes on Chelsea’s ass, heard what she said about being with the guy, yet the idea of _Harrington = faggot _is easy to believe— but he has no proof. Yeah— _proof_. If he can prove it one way or the other then he’ll be able to really work out what he feels about it.

If he can prove it that means Harrington has actually—

_—cksucking little—_

He _does not_ like that idea. The idea of some guy thinking they can just— Harrington’s a _good guy_. Too good a guy to be on his knees for some other faggot that thinks he’s better than him. That thinks he can _use_ him—

A guy like Harrington— if it was anything else, anything other than taking advantage, then there’s no way the guy would let Harrington out of his sight. It’d be obvious already. There’d be no need to look for proof, because the guy would be hanging around and guarding the brunet in case someone tried to steal him.

So, if some guy is _taking advantage_— if he keeps his eyes open and catches the guy he can probably see him off. Make him leave Harrington alone. The guy does not need some bastard lurking around making use of his charms—

_Getting ahead of yourself again Hargrove_.

Ok. Yes. _Proof_—

Could the Robin thing be proof? If she is a dyke she might be his—

What the fuck do you call it when faggots pretend to be straight by pretending to have a girlfriend? Whatever it is, she might be doing that for him while he does that for her. So—

If he can prove she’s a dyke it might help prove Harrington’s a faggot—

_How though_?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't actually think I need to put a trigger warning on this chapter, but perhaps I'm just so used to writing Billy the way I am I've become oblivious as he is, so please let me know if I've missed any.
> 
> So sorry it took so long to reply to everyone, unexpected business happened. Anyway I did manage to get this chapter done though, so there's that. Thank you all as always for commenting and leaving kudos! I really do appreciate them.

When he climbs into the beemer Harrington greets him with the entirely unwanted news that the kids have decided to go to the brunet’s house and investigate the pool— ‘I was kind of hoping, um, that you’d— _you know_— come around after we see Heather and help me stop them doing anything _too_ stupid—‘ Harrington shrugs, rueful, ‘I told them I wasn’t going to be home until then— I didn’t think they’d listen, but both the Sinclairs and the Wheelers had family stuff, so—'

He agrees, of course, and is displeased to learn— when he suggests they go pick up Max— that she’s already out somewhere doing something with the non-Sinclair, non-Wheeler members of the “Party.”

Then Harrington asks, ‘Will mac and cheese be alright for dinner?— because Dustin’s been nagging me for it again— Assuming you and Max can stay— Do you want to stay? For dinner? Everyone else is.’

‘Yeah, alright,’ he says, lighting a cigarette and looking out the window, avoiding those dark eyes though he doesn’t know why. ‘And yeah, mac and cheese sounds good— Max loves that shit.’

He better leave a message for Susan or something, no reason to piss his dad off so soon after his victory.

At the hospital they run into Heather’s aunt and uncle—Tommy H.’s fucking _parents_. ‘Stevie,’ the two of them coo— and they don’t look like the owners of that gloriously tacky 70s love nest. They’re fucking yuppie perfection, in everything from their careful coiffures to the white collar and cuffs on Tommy H. Senior’s blue and white striped shirt.

The woman— from the look of her he might as well say older, female _Tommy H._— takes over, ‘Oh Stevie, it feels like _forever_ since we’ve seen you— Have you come to see Thomas? Because we already took him home. Broken nose, cheekbone, and _eye orbit_, whatever that is— were you there? Did you see what happened? That _Carol_ said he got drunk and fell down the stairs at the Dailey house—'

‘What?’ Harrington breathes out, eyes big. ‘No, I’m sorry. I didn’t even know he got hurt—’

He lets himself drift out of the conversation, heading over to Heather’s bedside, looking down at her all plugged into all those machines. He feels— he feels _bad _about _her_, but he hopes no one looks at him, because for all looking at her makes _guilt_ rise, it’s nowhere near as strong as the sense of vicious satisfaction he finds himself feeling about Tommy H.’s broken face.

Harrington asks the— are they _Holloways?_ He thinks they might be Holloways— a bunch of questions about Tommy H.— which he only half listens to. The guy’s going to be alright, apparently— he did some damage, but not enough to even permanently fuck him up— unless his nose doesn’t heal right.

It’s kind of amusing that the guy hasn’t gone bitching to everyone about the fact _he_ did it— but maybe that’s just some evidence that somewhere in there Tommy H. has something like a survival instinct.

They want Harrington to go around later, to go see their son like the two are still friends, but the brunet manages to deflect without telling them their kid is an asshole and doesn’t deserve his friendship. After that the topic changes to Heather— and Harrington introduces him as the guy who found her and brought her to the hospital.

There’s a lot of thanks then, as well as repetitions of “It’s such a tragedy, first this happens to her and then her _parents_—” But he’s pleased to discover the doctors are hopeful. Her scans are all showing signs that she _will_ wake up, eventually, once her body has recovered from— and here they ask him if he knows anything about what happened to her, and he has to say “no” and they start going on about “poisoning” and her being “attacked” and asking him if he knows anyone who would want to hurt her.

‘I can’t say I do,’ he replies, and that’s _true_. Mind Flayer aside— ‘Everyone likes her at the pool— not just us lifeguards, but the kids and the parents and even the other teens.’ A lot of the time, when shit like— well, not like _this_, but like what they’re pretending this is— happens the people that crowd around acting like the victim was a perfect innocent loved by everyone are probably kidding themselves, but he doesn’t see it with Heather. She’s an honestly _good_ person.

Harrington pipes up with a statement about never hearing anyone say anything bad about her and that she is pretty much universally liked—

The Holloways sigh in unison, the male— actually _Daniel_, “call me _Dan_”— coming over to her bedside— him moving out of the way to let the older man take her hand— ‘It must have been someone from out of town,’ the woman— _Patricia_— says, nodding as if this is something she’s said a hundred times before. ‘It’ll be those filthy _carnies_ Mayor Kline brought in for his _stupid_ Forth of July— I tell you, that’s who it will be—’

‘Hopper’s looking into it,’ _Dan_ says.

‘Which is _something_, still—’

Soon after that Harrington manages to extract them— with promises he’ll go visit “Thomas” soon— The moment they’re out of the room, the brunet’s shoulders rise up by his ears, a pinched look coming over his face, before he actually _shakes_ off whatever he’s thinking. ‘When we get out of here can I have a cigarette?’ a small, _bitter_ smile, ‘I know I should probably go buy some—’

‘I don’t mind sharing,’ he interrupts the brunet. ‘Though— if we could stop somewhere so I can get some more?’

‘Of course,’ Harrington replies. ‘I should— Let me pay for them, ok? You’ve given me so many recently—’

He shakes his head. ‘Nah. Don’t worry about it—’ and then, when the other guy looks like he’s about to protest, ‘_Don’t worry about it_.’

Brown eyes flick to his face for a moment, before Harrington nods. ‘Ok man, if that’s what you want—’ the brunet sighs. ‘I did not expect those two to be here— I guess I should have thought about it first, though—’ Harrington glances at him again, ‘Do you know what happened to Tommy?’

Fuck. How is he supposed to answer that—? If he lies and Harrington finds out later— Fuck fuck fuck. He shrugs, trying to play it cool. ‘He got super fucking _drunk_ at that guy’s house and then came after me. I couldn’t get him to stop, so—’

‘Woah—’ Harrington grabs his arm and pulls him around to face the brunet. ‘Are you saying _you _beat up Tommy?’

‘He was being an _asshole_,’ he spits, and then, a bit calmer, ‘He kept pushing me, trying to _hit_ me—’

‘Wow, yeah, that was pretty fucking _dumb_ of him—’ Harrington says, letting got of him to wrap those long arms around his own waist. ‘_Why_, though?’

That is not a question he is going to answer even _remotely_ honestly. He needs to brush it off, maybe season it with a bit of a believable kind of lie— ‘I have no fucking clue, as I said, he was absolutely _wasted_ at the time. Don’t even know if he knew it was _me_ he was going after.’

‘Wow—’ Harrington repeats. ‘Wow man, I’m sorry he did that— though nowhere near as sorry as _he is_, I imagine— not that I have to be sorry. Not for him. Not _anymore_—’ the brunet trails off, frowning.

He doesn’t like that look. He _does not like_ that look. ‘Forget that _bastard_,’ he hisses, then clears his throat. ‘Come on, I could do with a cigarette too—’

They lurk in the parking lot near the beemer while they smoke— and he tries to ignore the way the cylinder trembles a little in the brunet’s hand. The way Harrington’s body seems all curled into itself, hunched down— the guy’s maybe an inch taller than him, but the brunet does not look it right now. _Jesus_—

He is really not sorry he broke Tommy H.’s face.

Eventually Harrington goes back to being Harrington, all smiles and helpfulness, happy to stop at the 7-11 so he can pick up some more cigarettes— offering to pay again, but he declines— _again_. He leaves the brunet in the car to go in and get the smokes— finding that hot girl behind the counter that was there last time— still completely indifferent to his attempts at flirting.

‘What happened to the guy who used to work here?’ he asks her, leaning on the counter and watching her absence of interest in watching back. ‘Dark haired guy. Bad attitude—’

She scoffs, giving him a _look_ with oddly familiar grey eyes, but then, ‘Got scared off by some Russian guy. I swear, this town gets weirder every year— that all?’ she glances at the carton of Marlboros.

‘That’s all,’ he sighs. Yep. No joy. The chick, this— he peers at her nametag— _Candice_.

Candice?

Fucking _Candy?_ She does not look like a Candy.

Dark hair, grey eyes, fucking _sneering_ at him now. Candys always seem like they should be blonde and tan and— you know— _flirty_. A bit dumb. ‘Your parents really weren’t clairvoyant, were they _Candy_?’ slips out.

She rolls her eyes. ‘Someone once told you good looks were enough to make up for a shitty personality, didn’t they? Hate to break it to you, but—’

‘Well, at least you think I’m handsome,’ he replies with a wink.

She makes a disgusted noise— which makes him laugh and her frown. Funny, he doesn’t even remotely care that his charms are failing on this girl— it would have been a bit of fun to flirt for a while, but he’s got to get back to Harrington and then they’ve got to go and stop the kids from being as stupid as they can be.

On impulse he grabs a packet of cherry Twizzlers, thinking vaguely of Max, vaguely of Harrington’s coral lips, and plonks it down on the counter— making Candy sigh and amend the total. He waves her goodbye as he struts out to the car, chucking the candy onto Harrington’s lap once the door’s shut.

‘What’s—?’ the guy asks, picking up the Twizzlers.

He shrugs. ‘Got them for Max, thought you might like one before she gets her hands on them and they’re gone.’

‘Ah, _thanks_,’ the brunet says, ripping open the packet carefully, handing it out to him first— he waves it off— before getting one out and sticking it between his lips as he pulls out from the 7-11.

Fucking—

Yeah. That’s the kind of colour of his mouth. Not _pink _pink.

It turns out that the shitbirds are already at Harrington’s house when they get there, already in the backyard, already standing over the pool— ‘I told you guys I wouldn’t be back until _three_,’ Harrington sighs, handing the Twizzlers to Max— who immediately shoves one in her gob and offers the packet to El and then Erica.

‘And it’s ten past _two, _yet here you are,’ Squawky responds. ‘I see you brought Billy—’

He hears Wheeler Jr and Sinclair muttering between themselves about why _he’s_ here. ‘Why do you _think_?’ Harrington interrupts them. ‘Because you’re all reckless _idiots_ and he’s scarier than I am so you might actually listen to _him_—’ the brunet shoots him an apologetic smile, making it clear that’s not a _criticism_.

‘He’s not _scary_,’ Wheeler mutters. ‘I’m not scared of him—’ he gives the kid a _look_ and enjoys the way he backs up a step, reflexively. He’d include _Sinclair_ in the look— but all of a sudden he’s remembering what Harrington said in the car that night.

He really should apologize to the kid— not for any of the shit he’s given him after. He’s seen the boy’s eyes on Max’s ass, after all, but for— yeah.

_Maybe later_.

He greets Max and El and Erica, and nods in acknowledgement to the little Byers kid— whose eyes are _huge_ and fixed on the water. Kid looks _scared_— he’d hope the others know what they’re doing, but he knows they _don’t_, so—

They really don’t. They hang around the edge of the water— where it feels cold and the air’s all _wrong_— staring into the pool, then El confirms that’s where Barb’s body is, then they discuss the fact that that’s where Barb’s body is, then they discuss the fact that El’s powers still aren’t working, and then they all decide to go inside and turn the TV on to static to _confirm_ El’s powers aren’t working— which makes him worry and kind of, he will admit, maybe, _hover_ a bit— but of course her powers _don’t _work, so then they decide someone is going to have to get in the pool and have a look.

‘No,’ is his firm opinion on the matter. Shared by Harrington.

Do the kids accept “no” as an answer? Of fucking course not.

Do things very quickly get very, _very _stupid? Of fucking course they do.

Does Harrington start to get worn down by their squawking and the worry one of them’s about to launch themselves into his pool and _die_? Of fucking course he does.

Does the brunet then volunteer to be the one to get in the gross, creepy, _wrong_ pool? Of fucking—

Anyway. End result is he _tells_ the other guy that it’s not happening and that _he’ll_ do it instead. 

Harrington tries to protest, _tries_, but, well— It’s kind of annoying having to get back into his swim trunks so soon after changing back into his jeans, huddled in the little downstairs powder room even though part of him had thought, maybe, Harrington would let him change in the brunet’s room.

He hesitates, just a little, hand on the doorknob, all too aware that, yes, he _is_ wearing a muscle t, and _yes_, he _is_ planning on climbing in the pool with it on, but— The scars are not fading. Not that he’d really expect them to, it hasn’t been very long, but—

He has to be careful, careful in a way he never has before, because even the idea of what Max would look like if she saw the bullet holes— and she’d _ask_, no way would she let him deflect or anything— Yeah. So far he’s trusting Squawky and Erica— and _Robin_— to keep their mouths shut without extracting the kind of promise Harrington was so free to give. But he is also very much aware he’s trusting _Squawky and Erica and Robin_— and the most he’s got on his side is the thought they might be— at least a _little_— scared of him. Yeah. The intimidation factor is pretty much all he’s got going for him right now.

Head up, shoulders back, the very fucking _picture_ of a man who knows _exactly_ what he’s doing, he heads back out to the pool.

‘You don’t have to do this,’ is what Harrington greets him with. ‘It’s— it’s— I mean, I don’t know for sure it’s _dangerous_, but it might be, and if it is my bat’s—’ the brunet gestures with his head to that fuck-awful bat Maxine almost took his balls off with, leaning oh-so-innocently against one of the lounges next to the water ‘—only going to be so much use—’

‘As long as you’re aiming it at _anything other than me_,’ he says, eying the fucking thing like it’s about to leap at his throat. ‘_That_ is your bat? Jesus _Christ _Harrington—’

‘You-can-call-me-_Steve_-if-you-want—?’ the brunet says like it’s one word, completely out of nowhere and with nothing to do with anything else that’s happening— which must be why he chokes on his own spit.

Once he has managed to regain his dignity he very carefully says— ignoring the rasp in his voice from his own body betraying him and just trying to fucking _murder him_— ‘I’ll be fine—‘ his voice fucking _cracks_, Jesus. ‘—_Steve_.’

He hears Max snort from somewhere behind him, but when he turns to look at her she’s looking all innocent— even though El and that Wheeler kid are giving her _what the fuck_ looks. ‘Twizzler?’ she offers, holding out the sadly deflated packet.

‘Do _you _want one—’ again he hesitates, the brunet’s name coming out a bit— _weird_— again, even though he’s not choking this time. ‘—_Steve_?’

A fraction of a pause, brown eyes on his face, _something_ in them, then the brunet smiles at Max, and sticks out a hand, ‘Sure.’

He goes over to the water’s edge while Harring— _Steve_. Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve, _Steve_— is slipping the red rope of candy between his lips. The air is still _cold_, still weird, still _wrong_, and he almost thinks there’s a scent there, something _familiar_.

‘If something gets me I’m holding you shitbirds responsible,’ he calls out, then jumps in.

—

And it’s fine. The water’s _cold_, colder than it should be since the day is hot and this seems like a heated pool anyway, but _nothing_ happens to him. He just bobs back up to the surface and looks up at the kids and a worried looking Steve.

‘No monsters?’ Squawky calls out.

‘No monsters,’ he replies, ‘but I’ll dive down, see if that changes.’

‘Be careful!’ Steve calls moments before he submerges his oddly warm face in the cold water.

His unexplained added weight makes diving down easy, but doesn’t change the fact that once he’s in it Harrington’s gross pool seems to just be a _pool_. There’s no sign of the Upside Down, just the walls and the floor and lights and drains and the _pool _parts of the pool— No dead Barbara Holland, no rot, no _monsters_—

By the time he climbs out he is _shivering_ though. He feels almost frozen. The water really is _unnaturally_ cold, but that’s about all he can say.

He tells the kids this, watches them frown and start squabbling about what it _means_, arms wrapped around his waist, skin pebbled with goosebumps, the heat of the day making his chilly body feel sluggish and weird.

‘Ok,’ Steve says, frowning at him. ‘I think you need a warm shower and to get changed into some dry clothes, you look—’ the brunet reaches out, a little hesitantly, and touches his arm before pulling it back. ‘Jesus Billy, you are _freezing_.’

After he’s fetched his clothes the brunet pretty much shoos him into the house and upstairs, getting a towel and ushering him into what is apparently _Steve’s_ own, personal, bathroom— ‘You can use my shampoo and stuff if you want,’ the guy says and just— _leaves him there_.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For homophobic language, and some references to child abuse. 
> 
> Um. Well, Billy is Billy I guess. And in this case an oblivious creep. But, yeah. Another chapter! Thank you all for reading, and for the comments and kudos. I wonder what you'll think of this one...

Fuck. The room itself smells like Harrington. Like his hair products, his soap, that _cologne_—

His gaze catches on another door, same as the one he just came through from the hall, and his mind is thinking _that’s probably Steve’s bedroom_ and _he could just walk over there and_— but. No. _Shower._ He’s here to shower.

And, yeah, ok, he _does_ maybe have a look around, opening drawers and the cupboard behind the mirror above the sink— He finds the cologne, a bottle with maybe a quarter used. _Annick Goutal, Sables_— Never heard of it. Either the brand or the fragrance in question.

Looks posh though. And French.

He raises the thing to his nose and breathes in— definitely Steve’s cologne, but it doesn’t quite smell so good by itself— probably needs body warmth to really bring it out.

He very carefully puts it back, closes the cupboard door, then goes and turns on the shower. For a moment he just stands there, under the warm water— the water pressure’s— _Well_, the water pressure at home is ok, not _great_, but ok, but here— fucking fancy-ass expensive fucking shower with some _massage_ shower head or something. It’s good.

Fuck, one day he’s going to get the kind of job that means he can afford to put a shower like this one in his house— when he has a house.

He lathers up his hair with Steve’s fucking _Faberge Organics_ shampoo— and yeah, that smells like Steve too— and—

_His fucking **dick’s** getting hard_.

Well, he is in a shower— a real fucking _nice_ shower— and he’s warmed up now, and he’s still kind of _frustrated_ from the night before, and—

It would be weird, wouldn’t it? Jerking off in Steve’s shower.

Yeah. Not cool— not _cool at all_—

He keeps washing himself, hoping it’ll go down— Conditioner smells like Steve too— same with that fancy-ass soap— _it’s not going down_. He can’t stay in the shower forever— someone will come looking for him and find him standing around awkwardly with a hardon.

It’s not _that_ weird, is it? Like, _Steve_ must jack it in this shower all the time. As far as he knows pretty much every guy does— maybe not in this _exact_ shower— but in the shower in general. Jerking off in the shower is perfectly normal and natural and probably actually healthy and a practice with good hygiene and—

He squirts a little of Steve’s conditioner into his palm and goes to town, breathing apologies to the guy the entire time that he’ll never say out loud. His thoughts are a whirl of long legs and brown hair and brown eyes and when he comes it’s like a punch in the gut, body hunching over convulsively, face resting helplessly on the arm he has pressed against the tiled wall of the shower.

After he pants for a moment, eyes catching on the streak of cum he’s left on those same tiles, before he makes himself straighten up and wipe it off, cupping water from the shower head to splash it away.

—

Not his proudest moment.

—

What would Ste—

_Nope_. Never thinking about that. Not even considering the guy finding out he just jacked off in his shower and then deciding he’s a creep and wanting nothing to do with him—

What if the other guy can smell it? Ok. Ok—

He quickly re-washes himself with all of the brunet’s shower products, frothing everything up so they let off as much fragrance as possible.

_Why is his dick twitching again?_ Jesus fucking _Christ_ you’d think the thing would be satisfied already.

It must be the warm, comfortable shower— So he turns off the taps and climbs out, grabbing that towel Steve left for him and wrapping himself in it— almost _moaning_ at the fluffy softness of the thing. _What the fuck kind of towel even is this_? Nothing like the thin, barely absorbent things his dad always insists they buy.

Fucking rich, posh—

He can’t even bring himself to be resentful. Steve’s too good a guy to resent for being born in the lap of this kind of luxury.

He dresses quickly, bundling up his swim trunks and soaked muscle t to take home later, then leaves the brunet’s bathroom, heading back downstairs even though he kind of wants to have a look around up here, maybe have a look inside Steve’s bedroom—

When he gets down there he finds the kids have migrated to the den and Robin has appeared from somewhere. ‘I miss anything?’ he asks after stuffing the bundle of trunks and top in his bag to take home—

For some reason he’s having trouble meeting Steve’s eyes—

‘It’s not a gate—’ is the answer, spoken with absolute confidence by Squawky. ‘—and we all agree if the Mind Flayer was loose again Will would be able to sense it, so we think it’s just—’ a shrug.

‘A weak point,’ the Wheeler kid says and they all nod, before Squawky goes on.

‘Right, a _weak point_, between _this_ world and the _Upside Down_.’

‘So it’s probably not dangerous,’ Max adds.

‘Unless a gate opens again—’ the little Byers says, ‘then, I think—’

‘Yeah, _then_ it might be dangerous—’ Max again.

And then it just descends into nerdery that he has no interest in. The gist is that none of them think whatever’s wrong with Steve’s pool is likely to do anything to anyone right now, but it might later, so Steve is now charged with the scared duty of keeping an eye on it and updating everyone the moment things change.

‘Kind of an anti-climax,’ Robin laughs, body bumping the brunet, ‘Not that I wanted to see some scary, fleshy, _monstrosity_ climb out of your pool, but this town’s got my expectations all turned around.’

He catches Max looking at the girl the way he suspects he is, with a look of _consideration_. Funny, thinking that maybe she’s a dyke seems to make her less irritating— she’s probably trying too hard to seem _normal_, and that’s probably what he and Max were picking up on that was annoying them.

With the pool drama investigated and out of the way he’s thinking that maybe the kids will want to go home, or possibly watch something on that fucking _expensive looking_ twenty-six inch TV set, but instead Squawky takes out what looks like a deck of cards and proudly declares that he’s been doing some research and that he made them.

Why that should be a thing to bother telling people he has no idea, especially as it doesn’t look like the things are like normal playing cards. They’ve got weird shapes on them— ‘Oh,’ Steve says, peering at them, ‘You’re going to do the party trick?’

‘Huh?’ Squawky frowns at him for a moment before shaking his head, ‘What? No. They’re _Zener Cards_. You use them to test people for ESP. I thought maybe El could practise with them— maybe they’d help her get her powers back.’

She doesn’t seem convinced, says something about _Papa_ and using them before but them not really working the way they’re supposed to and then something about not being able to _read minds_. Apparently Squawky has a way around all that— or at least his idea is for someone—_probably Squawky himself_— to go to the far end of the house away from the den and read out what’s on the cards while she tries to pick it up on a walky-talky.

After a bunch of squawking, some _for_ and some _against,_ this plan Squawky goes marching off into the depths of the Harrington residence without even _asking_ Steve where he’s allowed to go, and the rest of them are left looking at an awkward and uncomfortable looking El. Wheeler Jr. isn’t completely awful for once since he tells her she doesn’t have to do this if she doesn’t want to, but she says she does want to— with a look to _him_ to see if he’s ok with it— and honestly he’s not _sure_, but it doesn’t look like it could be dangerous— before she nods, sits on the floor, and blindfolds herself— because apparently she just has one of those on her all the time now.

They all sit around watching, waiting—

Absolutely _nothing_ happens and keeps happening for at least fifteen minutes, while El seems more and more dispirited and the Wheeler kid seems to be getting more and more _stressed out_— before Squawky’s voice comes bellowing down the halls. ‘Is it working?’

Erica goes out to bellow back that, ‘No it is not. Seems your stupid plan _is_, actually, _stupid_—’

The kids all start hollering about what they could try to do different, and then Steve says something about it maybe being the _deck_, like, if they used _real cards_ instead—

‘No offense Steve, but the thought that it’s the _deck _is just— it’s _stupid_. You know absolutely _nothing _about any of this, so you’re _not helping_—' the Wheeler kid starts, tone nasty, all _condescending_ as fuck.

He sees Steve flinch, just a little, not enough that he thinks anyone else notices, but _he_ notices, and he’s just about to lurch off the couch and give the little _shit_ a talking to for speaking to the brunet like that, but Max is flinging herself at him, pushing him back into his seat with both hands against his chest. ‘Don’t be such a _dick_ Mike,’ she snaps, still holding him in place.

‘What did I say?’ the dark-haired kid whines. ‘I didn’t say _anything_— He really doesn’t _know anything_—’

‘You know what?’ Steve says, voice perfectly calm and pleasant, ‘You’re right, I’ve got nothing to add— So I might as well go get started on dinner, yeah? Call out if any of you need anything—’

He watches the brunet go, temper fraying. ‘You know what you are kid?’ he says to Wheeler Jr. once Steve’s out of the room. ‘You’re a _turd_.’

‘_What?_’ the kid whines again, ‘_What did I say that was so **wrong**_?’

‘Steve’s just trying to help and you were a _dick_ to him,’ Max says, giving him a warning _look _before carefully backing away, keeping an eye on him like he’s going to lurch out of his seat and strangle the black haired boy right in front of everyone.

‘A _complete_ dick,’ El adds, looking unimpressed.

The kid carries on for a bit, whining about what he said not being so bad and the fact that it wasn’t like a _lie_— even though the boy must be able to tell he’s well and truly outnumbered. He’s just thinking of going after Steve, seeing if the brunet really is upset or something, when Squawky shows up and asks what he missed.

‘Mike was a dick to Steve so Steve went to make dinner,’ Max informs him.

‘What?’ Squawky turns his attention to Wheeler Jr. ‘Mike, _what did you do_?’

‘Nothing!’ the kid yelps, degenerating into self-defensive babbling.

‘Well, as _fun_ as this is—’ Robin says, getting out of her lounge chair, ‘I think I might go hang around with Stevie. Squabbling fourteen-year-olds aren’t really my _scene_.’

A moment later he follows, lingering to just remind the Wheeler boy that he’s a ‘turd’ before finding his way to the kitchen. ‘—it’s _fine_. _Seriously_. My feelings are far too robust to be hurt by _Mike Wheeler_— all I was going to say is that I have a proper deck around here somewhere if they want to use it—’ he hears the brunet sigh.

A pause. ‘Why do _you _have a deck of— Zemer? Zener? Zenar?— whatever-they’re-called cards?’

He enters the room to see Steve shrug, ‘I dunno. My uncle left them at some point when I was a kid— Billy! Do you need something?’

‘Can I use the phone?’ He really should try to talk to Susan— or at least leave a message or something. The thought of coming home to an enraged Neil again— _Not_ appealing.

No one’s home, but he leaves a message on the machine saying both him and Max will be at a friend’s place for dinner. When he hangs up the wall phone he gets out his cigarettes and gestures to the back door, heading out to pace back and forth by the creepy pool and smoke after Steve nods in acknowledgement.

Fucking Wheeler kid— _None of them_ have any idea how good they’ve got it with someone like Steve around. Nice and helpful and rich and, fucking, _considerate_— Kid’s a brat. That’s what he is. Hard to see _Karen_ as his mother— but maybe he takes after her blob of a husband. Maybe, once, a fucking _long, long_ time ago Mr. Wheeler the reclining _lump_ was skinny and active and fucking _bitchy as hell_. As far as he can see the thought isn’t any more appealing than the thing the man’s turned into in his old age.

Still doesn’t get it. Fucking sexy woman like that—

None of his fucking business though, is it? That ship has more than sailed—

For a moment he expects to regret it, right here right now, so soon after the Chelsea disaster— Karen Wheeler would _not_ give anyone such an indifferent handjob, no way— but he _doesn’t_. Karen’s more fantasy than flesh. He finds he wouldn’t mind a bit of _flesh _right now, someone warm and sweet who feels _good_ in his arms—

‘—NT TO RIDE MY BICYCLE! I WANT TO RIDE MY BIKE!’ comes absolutely fucking _roaring_ out of the house, making him drop his cigarette in the fucking _pool_.

‘I WANT TO RIDE MY BICYCLE! I WANT TO RIDE IT WHERE I LIKE—’

What the everloving _fuck_?

Back in the kitchen he finds Steve, Robin, and _Erica _of all people giggling while _bellowing_ along with Queen being played on the little tape deck on the counter. He’s in time for ‘YOU SAY SHARK, I SAY HEY MAN JAWS WAS NEVER MY SCENE AND I DON’T LIKE _STAR WARS_—’ the last bit emphasised and causing a brand new fit of giggles.

‘Hey!’ he can hear from somewhere deeper in the house. Squawky. ‘All nerds love Star Wars Erica!’

‘Nuh-uh!’ she bellows back. ‘That is not true. Star Wars is _lame_!’

This is apparently some dark spell that will summon annoying nerd boys— or at least _Squawky_— to the kitchen to argue about the various merits of those dumb fucking movies— and, ok, yeah. Carrie Fisher is _hot_, but—

Robin and Steve collapse into incoherent giggles, leaning on each other for a moment, before the brunet pulls away. ‘Cookies anyone? I was thinking of making some more chocolate chip—’

‘Nuh-uh,’ Robin replies, shaking her head. ‘_Oatmeal raisin _or something. You are _spoiling those children Stevie_, they will grow up expecting amazing cookies to just appear out of nowhere and then where will they be? Living a life of constant disappointment. Unable to function in a society where most cookies are no more than _sub par_.’

‘You say that like I don’t know you like oatmeal raisin,’ the brunet says with a twitch of his brow and smile just for her.

‘You two are _gross_,’ Erica says. ‘It’s bad enough watching _Lucas_ with _Max_— and how did my brother get a girl like that? That’s what I want to know.’

He spots the slightly awkward look between Steve and Robin, wonders if it’s proof of his _she’s a dyke pretending to be his girlfriend _theory, but then the chick shakes her head and says, ‘We’re not dating,’ gesturing between herself and the brunet, ‘We’re just friends.’

‘_Best_ friends,’ Steve adds.

Robin nods. ‘Absolutely _best_ friends.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Erica says, giving them a _look_ which says exactly how much she believes them. So, yeah, basically _not at all_. Which is funny, because even though Robin just blew his theory out of the fucking water, he finds _he_ believes them. Friends.

So they’re friends— but _what does that mean_?

Is that evidence _for_ or _against_ Steve being a faggot?

Fuck knows.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think there are any trigger warnings for this chapter, which feels weird, so I've probably missed one. As always please let me know if you think I need to add any. 
> 
> Yay another chapter. Hope you all enjoy! Thank you all, so much, for reading and for the comments and kudos!

Because whatever they are Steve is obviously a pushover for Robin the cookies end up being oatmeal raisin. Which he’d bitch about more, because who the fuck likes _oatmeal raisin? _but the end result is—fucking _oatmeal raisin _cookies should not be this good. Holy shit, Robin was not lying, Steve can fucking _cook_.

He does not moan around the still warm morsel of deliciousness in his mouth— but it’s a near thing. Fucking embarrassing, yeah. Jesus fucking _Christ_ how can Steve cook like this?

‘These are fucking _amazing_,’ slips out even though it’s kind of— yeah. Uncool. Acting like an idiot over _cookies_ of all things—

The statement earns him a pleased smile, the words, ‘It’s my Grandma’s recipe. I _think_— I mean, I only saw her make them a couple of times, but they _tasted_ like these ones do, so I think it’s right—' and _another cookie_, before Steve puts a bunch on a plate to deliver to the kids— now _all _in the den, and making the kind of noises that makes him suspect they’ve given up on psychic experiments and have resorted to watching nerdy TV.

Robin steals one from the plate as the brunet walks past, leaning back against the counter where she’s been leaning the entire time, and _looking_ at him. He doesn’t get it. What that look means— there’s assessment there, she’s _judging him_, but he’s not sure _why_.

He cocks a brow at her and leans back against the opposite counter, which makes her roll her eyes and blow out a breath. ‘What?’ he snaps.

‘Getting a bit domestic there, aren’t you Hargrove?’ she asks between bites. ‘Aren’t you worried easing up on your asshole act will turn you into a loser like the rest of us?’

‘_Steve’s _not a loser,’ he points out.

‘Not sure most of the idiots of Hawkins High would agree with you there.’

‘Like their opinion matters,’ he scoffs. ‘Anyway, thought he was your _friend_.’

‘Oh, he is,’ she replies, ‘Just didn’t think he was _yours_.’

For a moment he wants to protest, feels like she thinks being so fond of the brunet _makes _him a loser, but— Actually— a few nightmares, a lot of lost sleep, and some other —_concerns_— aside— he’s probably as content as he’s been in years, and _Steve_ is part of that.

From the den he can hear the sound of the kids carrying on, first excited about cookies, then whining about them being oatmeal raisin— then Steve laughing at them and saying if they don’t want oatmeal raisin cookies he can just _take them back_— which makes them start panicking and apologising and saying _oatmeal raisin’s ok as long as it’s not too often_ and _sometimes a change is good_ and then Wheeler Jr.’s frantic voice going on about how he’s sorry he _was a dick he didn’t mean it and he won’t do it again just give us back the cookies, please Steve!_

He shrugs, glances back at Robin, ‘Yeah. Well, guy grows on you. He’s— Yeah. He is not the guy I thought he was when we first moved here.’

She snorts a laugh. ‘Weird, but I know _exactly_ what you mean. For, like, _the longest time_ I thought he was just another _asshole_ like Carol or Tommy H.’

‘I fucking _hate _that guy,’ he spits out before he realises he’s going to.

A twitch of her brow. ‘I thought _he_ was your friend?’

He shakes his head. Fuck, now he wants a cigarette— ‘Nope. Started hanging around me when we first moved to town, talking _shit_ in my ear— He’s a fucking _parasite,_ that’s what he is— Wish I’d seen it then.’ If he had maybe he would have told the guy to fuck off and given _King Steve_ a chance instead. He’d probably have been _happier_ that way—

Not that Steve would have given _him_ a chance, not with the way he was treating Max back then. Fuck he was a _dick_ to her. _Jesus_. It took her almost taking off his balls to make him see sense—

It took him waking up realising he’d almost _killed_ the brunet—

He realises Robin’s looking at him in a way that’s different from her usual look of— _whatever it is_. Dislike. Mild disgust— this is a more _friendly_ version of that considering look she sometimes gives him.

Steve trots back into the room a moment later, sans cookie plate. ‘You two want another cookie before I get started on dinner?’

He isn’t going to agree, except he has before he thinks about it, accepting yet another perfect, warm, _moist_— Jesus. Eating like this is not going to be good for his waistline. It’s something to see _Robin_’s in the same predicament.

While they’re both stuffing their faces Steve turns the tape deck back on, humming along to a mix tape of mainly _weird_ Queen songs as he gets started making homemade mac and cheese. Once she’s finished her cookie Robin joins him, singing the lyrics with a surprisingly good voice.

The two of them are just—

‘_Fie-fo Black Queen, marching single file_—'

Fuck his life is _insane_.

He goes back out to the pool for another cigarette— It’s funny, now he’s used to the cold air, the _wrong_ scent of it, the strange, _uneasy_ feeling of the place, it doesn’t really bother him that much. He almost feels _comfortable_— Though it is fucking _unnerving_ when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye but looks and sees _nothing_ down there. Still— Worse and weirder things have happened recently.

The kids decide they’re going to be allowed to eat dinner in front of the TV— and, of course, Steve doesn’t protest— doesn’t even protest when they— or mainly _Squawky_, offended about certain statements concerning Star Wars earlier— decide that’s what they’ll all be watching. The first one. Fuck, he does not even care what the thing’s called other than _Star Wars_. He remembers when it was _just_ Star Wars.

_He _claims one of the armchairs. Erica claims the other. Steve and Robin and the little Byers boy— on Steve’s insistence when El makes it clear she wants to sit with Max and the Wheeler kid— take the couch— with the rest of the kids all lolling around on the carpeted floor in front of the TV set.

Of course the movie’s barely started when Squawky starts going on about his imaginary girlfriend and how much she likes Star Wars— because _all nerds like Star Wars **Erica**_— and then Max interrupts with something about this “Susie” being _hotter than Phoebe Cates_ and how she doesn’t think _Phoebe Cates is that hot, is she Robin_?

And he’s thinking _what the fuck?_ But then Max is going on about how Carrie Fisher is really hot as Leia and _you know she’s not wearing a bra under that white dress, don’t you?_ ‘What do you think Robin, is Phoebe Cates or Carrie Fisher hotter?’

And then, while the chick in question is going bright red and stuttering, Max starts listing other women she says are hotter than Phoebe Cates— Like Sigourney Weaver and Sean Young and Joan Jett and Michelle Pfeifer in Scarface— and when did she even _see_ Scarface?— and it seems like half the girls at Hawkins High— and he’s just starting to wonder if Max is a dyke too, when he realises the constant ‘What do you think Robin?’s are her attempting to work out if he was right about the chick.

Smart move Max.

For her part Robin just gets redder and redder under the barrage of names of hot chicks and reasons they’re hot. Sitting next to her on the couch Steve looks like he’s torn between finding this hilarious and starting to get a bit protective— and Squawky looks like he’s about to have a _fit_.

The kid starts squawking at Max about her being a _girl_ and thus not allowed to have an opinion on which girls are hotter than Phoebe Cates— which gets Max calling him _sexist_— and then he appeals to Steve to help, wanting the brunet to agree that the relative hotness of girls is a _guy interest_ not a _girl interest_.

‘I’m sorry man, but I’m pretty sure telling a girl she’s not allowed to have an opinion on something because she’s a _girl_ is, actually, pretty much the definition of sexist,’ is the brunet’s reply. ‘Also, you know, aesthetics are aesthetics— _Hot’s_ hot— and I don’t think you can really say girls aren’t allowed to have an opinion about girls unless you’re willing to say the same about _guys_— and don’t think I’ve forgotten you whining about how you don’t get why everyone thinks Ralf Macchio is that hot.’

‘You’re supposed to be on _my side_, Steve!’ Squawky complains, to which Steve just shrugs.

A moment later the brunet shoulder bumps Robin— who is still an amazing colour of scarlet— and says, quietly, ‘You want to help me in the kitchen for a moment—’

When they’re gone Max and he exchange a _look_ while Squawky is still squawking. Yep highly likely Robin is a dyke, also likely Steve knows, and probable that the brunet is considerate enough that he wants to give her a chance to compose herself after Max embarrassed her like that.

What it all means though—?

For the rest of the movie he does his best not to think about Carrie Fisher’s tits bouncing around unconfined— or why Max knows that. Girls are— Anyone who tells you girls are sweet and innocent and know nothing about things like that has probably never met one that wasn’t _amazingly sheltered._ Mind you, even the sheltered ones can be pretty—

Yeah.

He has had some _very weird sex_ with sheltered girls— but maybe that’s sheltered _Cali_ girls. Hawkins girls have been a bit more _tame_ in his experience. Catholic schoolgirls, man—

Mid-movie Steve starts getting twitchy— mind you he’s _feeling_ a bit twitchy too, they probably all are, since Squawky won’t stop telling Erica why each scene is amazing, what each character must be thinking based on a whole bunch of bullshit not included in the actual film itself, providing all sorts of random crap facts no one needs to know, and essentially inadvertently sabotaging his own campaign to convince the girl of the merits of the stupid fucking film series.

Ok. Yeah. Star Wars is actually pretty entertaining, but less so with Squawky— _squawking_ the whole time.

‘How about I get some more cookies?’ Steve finally breaks and asks. ‘Cookies would be good, right? Everyone wants cookies? Ok. Good.’

He could swear he hears the guy muttering something about “Oh my God shut up Dustin before you make _everyone_ hate Star Wars” to himself as he leaves, but he thinks he might be the only one.

There is almost a moment of peace, but then Squawky starts up again. Before he can drag himself out of his chair to go join Steve in the kitchen to get away from this fucking kid the brunet’s back, plate of cookies in hand. The kids start making grabby hands, but Steve offers the plate to Robin and Will first— arguing with the other kids when they insist he hurry up— then taking it around to Erica, before bringing it over to _him_. ‘Take as many as you want,’ the brunet advises, ‘Because they’ll be gone the moment those greedy little shits get them.’

He leans forward to take a couple, picking two of the bigger, raisinier, cookies— but as he does he gets a whiff of the brunet’s cologne, the smell of his shampoo and conditioner and soap, and his brain goes _I jacked off in his shower_ and _Carrie Fisher_ and _tits_ and **_something_** and he feels his dick _twitch_. He grunts, quietly, but does his best to ignore his swelling dick. If he shifts or readjusts himself it’ll be noticeable—

_Fuck his tight jeans_.

Ok. Yeah. He’s probably going to have to choose to wear his briefs for longer than it takes to keep his dick hidden during the walk from the bathroom to his bedroom or something the way things are going recently.

Sitting back as naturally as he can he looks up, about to suggest Steve make sure he gets some cookies for himself before handing them over to the ravening hoard— but those brown eyes are dark and velvety and for a split second he gets _caught_ in them—

‘_Cookies Steve!_’ Squawky demands.

The brunet jumps a little, gives him a real fucking _nervous_ smile, then takes a cookie for himself before handing the plate to El— the most patient of the cookieless children.

_Jesus fucking **Christ**_—

Max has scored herself an invite to sleepover with El at the Byers house— which is apparently where her and the Chief are living now— though where they’re going to fit her he has no idea— which she brings up after the movie’s over and the kids are starting to make noises about going home. ‘When did that happen?’ he asks, because he can’t remember hearing any of them talk about it.

‘I think you were outside smoking—’ she replies. ‘It was sometimes when Steve and Robin were singing the Flash Gordon song—’

‘Queen really is a _nerd_ band,’ Erica adds.

Steve starts arguing with that assertion, but Erica is firm. Queen is a nerd band. Steve likes Queen. Steve is a nerd. _Everyone’s_ a nerd— other than _him_— but the way she says that makes him think maybe that’s not a compliment.

Anyway, he tells Max she’s allowed to stay over with El if it’s ok with 1. Chief Hopper. 2. Mrs Byers. 3. Susan— so she has to go use the phone while he gets to watch Steve Harrington get roundly schooled on his nerd status by a ten-year-old girl.

Max comes back triumphant— the end result of which is— after the other kids have been picked up or rode off on their bikes (or driven off in her mom’s car, in the case of Robin)— he and Max and El and the little Byers boy all get ushered into Steve’s car so he can drop the rest of them off at the creepy Byers place with a tin of cookies for Mrs. Byers— where he tries to ignore Chief Hopper looking at him from the front window as he pulls Max aside to make sure she’ll be alright if she has a nightmare, to which she responds that she’s pretty sure both El and the little Byers kid have them too, so it should be fine— before Steve starts off all the way across town just to drop him and Max’s bike off.

He can’t think of anything to say, but that seems ok. The two of them falling into a comfortable silence, broken only by the brunet humming along to the pop songs on the radio. The guy’s voice is pleasant— don’t get him wrong, he’s no _Freddie Mercury_, the brunet’s not likely to be winning any record deals anytime soon, but still, _pleasant_. A good voice for lullabies, if that makes sense. Sweet and smooth— though without Robin’s surprising _range_.

They part with Steve confirming what time he wants to be picked up to be dropped off at the pool in the morning, before he lingers outside to smoke and watch the burgundy beemer drive away. It’s dark, both inside and outside the house— no lights left on for him, though he can see light shining under Neil and Susan’s door.

He gets ready for bed— hoping for once he can sleep and won’t dream— and lies down, light off, closing his eyes and—

_Falling._

_Falling._

_Falling_.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: for mentions of suicide, oblique mentions of child abuse, possibly others. Let me know if I've missed any.
> 
> Just thought i should let everyone know that I may not be able to update as often as usual over the next month- busy, I'm afraid- I am aiming for once a week, but I might have to miss a week, maybe two, depending. Things are a bit up in the air right now. Anyway, thank you all so much as always for reading, for the comments and the kudos, and I hope you're all having a good time for this time of year!

_Falling._

_Falling._

_Falling_.

He jolts awake in the backseat of his baby. For a moment he’s disorientated, confused— it’s not— something’s— he blinks, raises his hands and rubs at his eyes and looks around.

Well _shit_.

Outside drifts of crap are falling from an eternally black sky.

He takes a deep breath, pulling in cold, stale air, the smell of the place, before climbing out of the car and looking around properly. Yep. He is on the side of the road near the phonebox, Brimborn Steelworks just up there—

Someone’s laughing.

Though— _are they_? They could be crying. There’s a strange, wheezing edge to the sound—

He can’t see them. He can’t see anything but this place and the rot and the darkness—

‘You see, _I’m already dead_—’ a voice echoes strangely around him. A punchline to a joke he missed the beginning of— ‘I thought this was it. I thought— you know, in stories, the way the bad guy can _redeem himself_, right before the end— I thought _this was my end_. But it’s not. I just—_keep going_—' and then the laughter starts up again—

Oh.

_Oh no_.

No no no no no no no no no no no nonononononononooooooo—

He knows that voice. Of fucking _course_ he knows that voice. He’s lived with that voice every Goddamn day of his Goddamn life—

‘—So, turns out throwing myself off the top of the school won’t work either. Tell you what Dead Girl, this afterlife business sure ain’t what it’s cracked up to be—'

_Dead Girl_. ‘Steve’s gross pool,’ he breathes to himself, lurching back to the car, turning the key in the ignition the moment he has the door closed. Nothing happens.

When he pops the hood he finds the fibrous rot of the place has infiltrated into the engine over the days since—

His voice is laughing again, sounding well and truly _cracked_. ‘You’re right, I wasn’t serious— at least I don’t think I was. Who the fuck knows? I don’t know. I have no fucking clue what the fuck is going on—’

_Fuck_. Ok. Ok— He’s just going to have to— No _fucking way _is he walking all the way across town— Maybe there’s a gross, half rotten version of a bike around here somewhere? It seems like more than half the fucking town has bikes. Maybe _he_ should get a bike—

Nope. Too far into _loser _territory— He may have made a few exploratory surveys into such unmapped regions recently, but there’s no way he’s going to throw himself in headfirst.

‘Yeah. If I could _find the asshole_!’ his voice is now shouting. ‘You hear me?! When I do I’m gonna— I don’t even fucking know _what_! But I fucking swear it’s going to _hurt_. And don’t go thinking you can just _kill me_ to get rid of me— oh no. Fucking _immortal_ over here you sack of _dicks_.’

No bike. No _nothing_— and there’s no fucking way he’s going into the Steelworks to look in there— so it looks like he’ll have to _walk_. Fucking _joy_.

Strolling through some nightmare version of this fucking town he hates is made even fucking _worse_ by listening to himself having what sounds like a complete fucking nutcase _meltdown_ somewhere just out of sight. His voice starts having hysterics about Max and El— and them being alive, but the voice having trouble convincing himself that they _are_ alive and it’s not just a trick— as he starts off, and that’s bad enough, but then it starts going on about whether or not this is _hell_ and then—

‘This is about Harrington, isn’t it?’ comes at a particularly low moment. ‘This is because I hurt him like that— Yeah. Yeah, that’s what it is— _You know I didn’t mean to_, I just lost my temper— I didn’t know he was such a _pussy_— All my life from fucking _Neil_. Pussy. You’re the pussy old man. You’re the _coward_. Fuck I _hate you_— Fucking _Harrington_ too— pussy little _bitch_. Eyes and hair like a fucking _girl_—’

It’s— He doesn’t like the man he’s hearing. Not at all— and it just gets _worse_. Worse as he walks through the dead, so very _dead_ town, the air full of shit that should hurt his lungs, make him cough, make him _choke_— but he breathes it as easy as pure, mountain air on a sunny day.

For a while it sounds like his voice is talking directly to— well, he _assumes_ it’s the body of Barb Holland at the bottom of this version of Steve’s pool— Though by “_talking to”_ what he really means is _being a dick to._ ‘You know— _no one cares what you think Dead Girl_. If they cared about you _at all_ you wouldn’t be here, would you? They would have come and got you or something— Not left you here to _rot_.’

There is a pause. Poor dead Barb, if it is dead Barb the voice is talking to— not that he thinks she’ll care either way, she is _dead_ after all, but the voice is being such a— but then it changes, softens, becomes more contemplative.

‘Did you know him? Are you from around here? Or are you just some unlucky little bitch who fell through into hell from somewhere else? You a Cali girl? You even a girl at all? You look like you were a redhead—’

Something, part way between a rueful laugh and a sob, ‘Fuck. I hope Max is ok.’

_This is a dream, isn’t it?_ He’s sure— He’s had dreams like this recently, hasn’t he? Trapped here? The voice though— He’s not sure, he can’t remember. It feels familiar—

This is because they were investigating Steve’s pool earlier, isn’t it— That _was_ earlier—

_Wasn’t it?_

How long has he been here—

Not long. _Not long_.

_He has to remember that_.

‘He always such a _bitch_, Harrington? Oh fuck, _I’m losing it_. This isn’t— This _is not what was supposed to happen_. Go back, yeah, go back and fix it and then— just— I dunno. _Fade away_.’

It’s almost like the voice belongs to that other him, the one that disappeared when the gate shut—Funny the way dreams work.

If it is just a dream why is he going to where he thinks the voice is? To Steve’s pool? He could just stop. Just _rest _somewhere until he wakes up— His pace slows. There’s not that much further now, just a few more streets— in reality the town isn’t that big— There’s plenty of places he could sit, smoke— except he has no cigarettes. Is wearing nothing but the loose pants he sleeps in to keep his dick to himself while living in his father’s house.

‘Sometimes I think I can see him, _up there_— looking down at me, always looking down at me— hah! It’s just like being alive, being judged by Steve fucking _Harrington_—' yep. Definitely _Steve’s pool_. ‘—He always did think he was better than me— the way he’d just _ignore me_—You know what, Dead Girl? I’m no faggot, not remotely interested— but it’d almost be worth proving fucking Neil right, that there is really something fucking _wrong_ with me, to put that little _pussy_ in his place—‘ He stops entirely. Oh no. _No._ The voice is not about to—

‘The first time I ever— it was this girl, _Lynne_, she was _determined _to wear white at her wedding—’ From somewhere very far away he thinks that he remembers her— that he’s still kind of proud of the way he’d managed to get her to come even though he’d thought she wouldn’t be able to, considering where she’d insisted he— but the rage is rising up and swallowing most of his thoughts. Ok. _No_. No way. He knows where this is headed, and he does not give a _fuck_ if it’s his own fucking voice talking—

‘I bet Harrington would squeak _just like her_ with a dick up his ass—’ _Jesus Christ_. The voice actually said it out loud— He is going to— No one speaks about Steve like that. Not Tommy H. Not— Not _him_. No one. He is going to punch _his own_ asshole face in.

Instead of strolling, instead of walking at a reasonable pace, he starts _running_. Sprinting towards Steve’s house, towards the voice that would dare to— Fucking _dick_. He’s going to— He’s going to—

His body moves easily, almost _flowing_ along. Speed increasing past what it should be able to. Limbs seeming to _extend_—

Alarm bells start screaming in the back of his mind as awareness _shifts_. As his body _stretches_. Comes apart. Drops forward. As _more legs_ start appearing— long and spindly and bony and _sharp_— so instead of running upright he’s skittering along like a giant— even more many-legged than usual— _spider_.

He vaguely registers starting up the Harringtons’ drive, skittering over the dark mirror image of Steve’s beemer, skidding around the side of the house, heading for the pool— He can see it, the edge of it, hear that voice— now sounding just up ahead, no longer echoing like it was. ‘—_Fuck_, Listen to me— you know I don’t mean it Dead Girl. I’m just— I’m so fucking _sick_ of this. I just want it to stop— or to change. Or _Something_. Anything. Anything other than— How long do you think I can stay trapped in here? No matter how hungry I get I just keep going, no matter how thirsty— I _can’t die_—'

He launches himself into the empty space of the pool, sees his own _blue_ eyes widen, his own grimy, bedraggled form straighten up from his crouch by the remnants of the body, and then he’s—

_Falling._

_Falling._

_Falling_.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For homophobic language and fear of homophobic reprisal. Let me know if I've missed any.
> 
> I've fallen into the bad habit of responding to comments when I've finished another chapter and am getting ready to post it, which I'm going to try not to do this time- in part because it feels kind of unappreciative, and I do appreciate you all, but also because I'm pretty sure I'm not going to have time to finish the next chapter in the coming week, so it might be two weeks before it gets posted. Anyway, on with the show- I hope you all enjoy, and thank you as always for reading, commenting and leaving likes!

_Falling._

_Falling._

_Falling_.

It’s freezing. He can’t _breathe_. He—

He surfaces, limbs flailing, to the muffled sound of, ‘no no no no no— _Billy?!_ Oh my God. Oh my God. Let me just—’ and the clatter of something hard skittering across concrete. A moment later a warm hand is grabbing at him and he looks up and it’s _Steve_ and—

He’s in the guy’s _pool_.

He launches himself at the edge, where the brunet is, grabbing at the concrete and _dragging_ himself out of the water, helped along by Steve’s warm hands on his cold flesh, pulling at him.

They land in a tangle at the edge of the water, him lying half across the guy’s lap, shivering, shivering, heart _thundering_ in his ears, trying to catch his breath. 

The brunet is so _warm_.

_He’s so cold_.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck— Oh my God, does that hurt? Oh _God Billy_, that looks like it hurts—’ he feels Harrington’s hands running across his back, grabbing at one of his arms, lifting it so the brunet can see better and let out a _hiss_, before warm hands tentatively rub at his skin. ‘Oh God— Oh God you’re so _cold_. We’ve got to get you warmed up. We’ve got to— _I don’t know what to do_— Calm down. Calm the _fuck down Harrington_. Deal with it. You have to— Ok. Yes. Come on, we’ve got to get you inside—’

Steve shifts underneath him, trying to get him off his lap, trying to stand, trying to move them both— ‘Holy fucking _hell_, how are you so heavy?’ the guy whines, plaintive. ‘Come on Billy! You’ve got to help me out here—’

He feels exhausted and about to shake apart, but that voice, those warm hands— somehow he gets his limbs— just the usual number now— under himself and helps Steve get free and then pull them both upright.

They stagger inside, the brunet once more under his arm, taking part of his weight. Steve props him against the wall and very carefully locks the backdoor, before turning to him and saying, ‘Oh. Oh it’s _fading_. Thank God. It looked like—' long fingers come up to his face, tracing carefully over his cheek, his nose, down to his jaw, dark eyes peering at him intently— before the guy suddenly pulls back his hand. ‘Sorry. Wow— yeah. _Sorry_. I’m being— Um. If you lean on me do you think you’ll be able to make it upstairs?’

‘D-d-d-don’-n-t-t kn-n-now-w-w,’ he manages to chatter out as the shivering gets _stronger_. Fuck. He feels like someone’s boiled his brain. Everything’s kind of thick and syrupy and he can’t _think_. He was dreaming— He thinks he was dreaming. He can’t really remember.

‘We’ll have to _try_, we need to get you warm—’ the brunet says, grabbing at him, taking his weight again, and leading him through the house to the stairs.

‘W-w-warmmm,’ he manages, the heat of Steve against his side soaking into him, feeling _good_.

‘I know, I know, we’ll get you warm soon—’ the guys says, oblivious. ‘Fuck. I am _way too drunk _to be dealing with this right now.’

Somehow they make it up the stairs and across to Steve’s bathroom— though they almost end up slipping down the stairs a few times on the journey— where Steve tries to prop him against the wall to get the shower started.

He doesn’t want to let go. He’s so _cold_. Steve’s so _warm_. He lets himself list sideways so he ends up leaning full body against the brunet— ‘Ok, ok—’ he hears the guy say to himself, mind too full of fuzz to really process the words. ‘Ok, but this is _your_ fault— I’ll just—’

His tired, shaky arms find themselves winding around that slender waist, his face slumping forward, aching brow resting against Steve’s shoulder. He hears a yelp. _‘Really not my fault_—’

The body in his arms moves, not shaking him off, but reaching out and adjusting the water while remaining in his grasp. He rubs his face against a warm shoulder— fuck. There’s too much fucking _hair_ in his face— He reaches for it, gently combing it out of the way, his freezing fingertips brushing the back of the other guy’s neck and making him shiver—

Huh. He blinks, fingers going to the strange, dark little shape inscribed into the skin behind the brunet’s ear, rubbing at it momentarily, mind too sluggish to comprehend what it says— but then Steve is shifting around in his arms, pushing him away a little, and mumbling about whether he should take his pants off.

‘They’re soaked through, I know they’re soaked through, it’s pretty fucking _obvious_ they’re soaked through— and you’re still freezing, and— Ok. Ok. I can do this. This is nothing more than— I’m helping out a friend. That’s all. Just a friend— Oh my God Billy don’t be angry with me tomorrow—’ he feels fingers scrabble at his waistband so he tries to help, struggling with the sodden cloth with hands that feel huge and clumsy and like they really should belong to someone else— ‘And that’s your dick. Of course it’s your dick, what did I expect—? Huh. You’re a _natural blond_— Oh fuck bad Steve don’t— Way, way too drunk for this. Oh my God I am _never drinking again_—’

Once they’ve got his sleep pants down his legs he kicks them into the corner, letting Steve guide him back into the shower, but finding his own hands don’t want to let go of the guy once he’s under the water. ‘What? No— _Billy_—’ the brunet struggles a little, but not too convincingly, as he pulls the guy into the shower with him and back into his arms, so he can stand there with Steve in his embrace, his face pressed against the soggy cloth of the guy’s t-shirt between his tense shoulder blades. 

He hears a series of panicked, high-pitched noises, before all the tension in Steve’s body suddenly drains away. ‘_Fuck_.’ He hears whispered, full of defeat. ‘This is— You trying to torture me? You are going to _hate me _tomorrow when you remember this— but what can I do—? Jesus _Billy_.’

Eventually the heat of the water soaks all the way through his frozen flesh, making the shivering subside. His head still feels full of crap. His mind— his memory— all blurry and weird and _wrong_. He wants to stay here forever, hiding from the world, hiding from _reality_ with his face pressed against something like comfort, but eventually enough of his brain comes online that he starts thinking Steve can’t be too comfortable standing in the shower in his t-shirt and— he pulls back enough to look and can’t really see anything— _briefs?_

‘You’re all wet,’ he mumbles.

A weird, kind of broken chuckle. ‘Oh, I am aware.’

‘We should—’ he reaches for the bottom of the t-shirt, pulling it up, revealing dark blue briefs soaked against Steve’s skin.

‘If you’re trying to fuck me this is _not_ the way to go about it—’ the brunet’s voice comes fast and panicked. ‘Oh God I can’t believe I just _said that_. Don’t be angry, ok?’

‘M not angry,’ he mumbles, still tugging on the shirt. ‘Not tryna fuck you. Wouldn’t— wouldn’t treat you like _that_—‘ He’d _never_, not without even _asking_— Fucking. _Disrespectful_. ‘—Just want. You look _uncomfortable_.’

A _bitter laugh_ and then ‘I _wonder why._’ Steve slaps at his hands until they let go, ‘Come on Billy, you’re warm now, let’s get you out of here so you can lie down or something— ok?’

He grunts an agreement. Fuck he is _tired_. Exhausted. Worn down all the way to the bones of him.

The brunet turns off the water, but he’s still wrapped around the guy and Steve seems too— _something_— to really— Yeah. They just stand there for a bit, but— He’s being an _asshole_, isn’t he? They need to get the brunet out of those wet clothes—

‘Come on,’ he manages, nudging at Steve until the guy climbs out of the shower. He follows, still wrapped around that tall, slender form. Fucking— _all legs and hair_. Long hair too— soaked flat like it was at the community pool and brushing his shoulders. _Nice_ hair. _Sexy _like this. Bet whichever faggot’s managed to get their hands on him likes touching it when they—

His arms clench tighter around the guy’s waist, making Steve squeak. ‘Ok, no. Billy— _Billy _you’ve got to let me go, ok? This is getting— This is getting _weird, _man. Weird and you don’t— I know you don’t— Fucking _mixed messages_, I swear to God.’

‘Don’t wanna,’ he manages. ‘You feel nice.’

‘Oh God help me—’ he feels the brunet shudder in his grip. ‘Billy. I _mean it_. Come on— We’ll just— Look. My bedroom’s just through there, you can lie down, just—’ Another shudder, and then Steve seems to give up on trying to get him to let go in favour of walking them both to the room in question.

It’s—

Wow. Ok.

_Ugly_, but—

There’s the bed and the bed is tempting enough that when Steve leads him to it and tries to push him onto its soft surface he lets himself go, missing the other guy’s warm body the moment he lets it go. ‘Oh God Billy Hargrove is naked in my bed— I’ll just— Oh _fuck my life_. I’m gonna go and drink another bottle of wine while sitting on the kitchen floor, ok? Just— I dunno, _shout_ if you need something.’

‘Stay,’ he says, hand reaching, reaching, curling around the brunet’s wrist as the guy tries to leave.

‘_Billy_,’ Steve whines, plaintive.

He’s already feeling cold again. Cold and alone and _afraid_— ‘Just— _Stay. _I don’t want to dream anymore—'

A pause and then, ‘This was your idea, ok? Don’t go getting mad at me tomorrow— _oh who am I kidding_? I need to change into something other than this wet shit, so let me go for a minute—’

‘Just take it off,’ he suggests.

Another pause, then a slightly insane sounding laugh. ‘I am not getting into bed with you _naked_, man. I mean, it’s _bad enough that **you’re**_ _naked—_’ 

Steve pulls his arm away, and he whines as the other guy’s warmth leaves. Fuck. He feels fucking _awful_. Exhausted and loopy and like nothing’s really _real_— he wants that warm body back in his arms. He wants to be able to tell himself it’ll all be ok—

A moment later Steve reappears, lurking awkwardly by the side of the bed in a full set of winter pyjamas. ‘You getting in?’ he manages with the arch of a brow.

The brunet lets out a heavy breath. ‘If you’re going to kill me tomorrow can you at least do it before I wake up?’

He laughs, because— ‘I’d never hurt you. Not _again_.’

‘I have no idea if _you’ve_ gone insane or _I’ve_ gone insane or if this is some really, really, really _weird_ dream—’ very, very _carefully_ Steve climbs onto the bed about as far away from him as possible. Well that’s not what he wants—

He reaches out, grabs the brunet, and pulls him close, chuckling again at the way the guy squawks as he’s dragged down half on top of him, one fabric covered thigh between his own, pressing down comfortingly over his soft dick. He wraps his arms around the guy’s slender torso, nuzzling his face against the side of Steve’s face, waiting, waiting—

Eventually— with an _exhausted_ sigh— the brunet relaxes, letting his weight down so it’s half on the bed and half across _him_. ‘I’m just going to sleep now and pretend this isn’t happening—’ he hears barely more than whispered into the air by his ear.

‘Ok,’ he replies, letting his own eyes close, letting himself relax back on the bed. It’s funny, Steve feels so _good_ in his arms—


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: for homophobic language, a bit of sexism I guess re: women's cigarettes, body horror, a bit of suicidal ideation, also I feel like I should probably mention something about how not good for you it is to smoke in general- let alone as much as Billy does- but we all probably knew that already. 
> 
> Anyway... Denial Powers Activate! I hope you all enjoy the chapter, and thanks for reading, leaving kudos and commenting!
> 
> On a (slightly) more serious note it's probably going to be round about the new year before I can get the next chapter out, and there may be a two or three weeks at the start of January without an update after that- not quite sure just yet, I'll hopefully be able to tell you more next update- but then things should become more regular again.

When he wakes up Steve Harrington is on top of him and his own hard dick is pressed up against the guy’s clothed thigh. It takes him a moment to realise this, because at first he’s just aware that he’s comfortable, that he feels _safe_, that he thinks he actually _slept_ for a while— Then he realises someone’s in bed with him. _Then_ he realises whoever they are they feel real fucking _tense_. **_And then_** he opens his eyes and to meet Steve’s own ones. Big. Brown. Kind of panicked looking—

‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, voice husky from sleep.

Steve blurts out a shrill little giggle— which makes him shake and feels fucking _good_ on his dick— and pulls back a little, which is when he also realises he’s got both his arms wrapped around the brunet so the guy can’t really go anywhere— Hm. How did he get here?

‘This was not _my_ idea,’ the brunet rushes to tell him. ‘Um— can you let me go now?’

He was— was he dreaming? He can’t really remember the details. It was— was it the _Upside Down_ again? He can remember the rot everywhere— and then he can remember getting _angry_— and then— ‘Did I actually sleepwalk into your pool last night?’

The brunet flinches. ‘That— That is something I think we’re going to have to talk about, even though I wasn’t— Like, I _want_ to let you decide when— and _if_— you want to talk about it, but—’

His brain is not working anywhere near well enough to parse that. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

A pause, then Steve blows out long breath. ‘Ok. I think we should both get up. I think— I’ll lend you some clothes. I’ll make us some breakfast— and some _coffee_, holy fuck do I need coffee right now— and then I think we’re going to have to talk about last night. Or, you know, the _you ending up in the pool and some other stuff about that_ part of last night—' a slightly crooked little smile, ‘— that is— _if you don’t feel like killing me for this_—?’

He frowns. ‘For what?’

The brunet groans in frustration. ‘_I_ _give up_— fuck self-preservation. _Jesus_ Billy. I’m lying on your _dick_, or have you not noticed?’

Oh. Yeah— That’s right, he’s _naked_— He remembers— Shower. Not wanting to let Steve go— He shifts his hips back, trying to get the intrusive presence of his dick away from poor Steve. _Not cool Hargrove_, talk about not even _asking_ first. ‘Sorry,’ he says.

‘Aren’t you mad at _me_ about it?’ the brunet squawks.

‘Why? It’s _my _dick, you didn’t ask to be lying on it, and I’m the one who was all—’ he’s not quite sure how to encompass the idea of being all clingy, without actually admitting he was being _all clingy_.

A pause, brown eyes looking at him with _consideration_, and then a nod, ‘Ok. Ok then— Um. If you let me go I’ll get off it—?’

‘Oh, yeah, _sure_—’ he unwraps his arms, freeing the brunet.

Steve very, very carefully pulls his leg away, rolling off him to sit on the edge of the bed with his back to him for a moment— he hears the guy sigh— and then the brunet’s standing up and heading for the dresser and a moment later throwing a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt at him with a shrug and, ‘They should fit. Like, we’re almost the same height and— Well, yeah, you’re a bit more _built_ but— I’m just gonna go get dressed in the bathroom. Ok?’ With that the guy scurries out of the room, bundle of clothes in hand.

He sits up, running a hand over his face. Wow, ok, yeah— Steve’s bedroom is as ugly this morning as he thinks he thought it was last night. All that— Is that _plaid_ wallpaper? It’s kind of depressing— Also, oddly, not very Steve.

He gets out of bed, idly observing the way his dick bobs in the air as he does— Well. It’s not like he can jack off _now_. _Here_. Jesus. Stupid fucking thing—

_It was pressed up against Steve’s thigh all night_—

Yep. Not following that thought anywhere. If the guy’s not mad at him about it there’s no point dwelling on it. Steve’s gotta know he wasn’t gonna try anything— The fact that he’s _not a fag _aside, he’d _never_— Like. He prides himself on treating the girls he’s with _right_. Even if he doesn’t like them. Even the ones he can’t help kind of feeling _contempt_ for— He’s never given _anyone_ reason to complain in that department.

If he did suddenly wake up a fag he wouldn’t just— He’d _ask_ first. Ask _nicely_. You know?

_He could have just thrust his hips upwards and **rubbed** against the guy until he—_

Nope. Nope. Not thinking about it—

An echoing voice, some incoherent remnant of his dreams _—squeak just like her_—

A strange surge of _rage_ swells in him, before he bites it back down. He wonders if that’s what the brunet expected, just being _used_— if that’s the way he’s been treated before. No fucking _sense_, people in this shithole town. 

He glares at his dick kinda helplessly. Fucking thing isn’t softening up— It would be. Oh it would be _so _easy to just— He rubs the palm of his hand across the head, shuddering at the way the sensation _surges_ in him— _No_. He pulls his hand back, grabbing the clothes and getting dressed as quick as he can. He kinda needs a piss—

Steve’s out of the bathroom when he goes to use the facilities— fuck he’s always hated trying to piss with a hardon— and once he’s done and washed his hands and headed downstairs he finds the brunet kneeling on the kitchen floor, scrubbing at a puddle of— dried _red wine_?

There’s a bottle. Looks _cheap_. Looks _empty_— There’s also a sheet that matches the set on the brunet’s bed in a sad little pile in the corner between two counters. ‘The fuck happened here?’ he asks.

Steve jumps a little, then looks up at him with a rueful smile. ‘Um— You startled me when you came barrelling around the house last night.’

‘Startled you doing _what_?’ he eyes the wine bottle, the sheet, the absence of a glass.

A shrug. ‘Couldn’t sleep, you must know how it is, man?’

‘Yeah—’ that he does. ‘You need a hand with that?’

The brunet shakes his head. ‘Why don’t you go out for a smoke— Um. I know you don’t have yours on you, but I found a pack of my mom’s—’ great, _women’s cigarettes_— ‘—though they are Gauloises. Um. _Unfiltered_ ones, so you may not want—'

Huh. _Gauloises? _‘That’s fine,’ he’s smoked them before— usually when he’s bummed one off someone with artistic pretensions. Not his favourite, but— He scoops the blue packet and the matchbook Steve left out for him off the counter and heads out the back to smoke by the pool.

He lights up and plops himself down in one of the lounges, looking out over the water. Fucking _embarrassing, _isn’t it? Sleepwalking into poor Steve’s pool.

Fuck. _Pool_— Oh _fuck it_. He’ll worry about it later— if he’s real nice he can probably sweettalk them into letting him get away with skipping— and if _not_. There’s other jobs in this shithole town. He can always do yardwork or something— fucking _Neil_’s fucking hopeless, so it’s usually up to him to maintain shit around the house. Bored, unhappy housewives are also usually pretty fucking _happy_ to hire him for whatever as long as they can _look_ at him.

After a while he hears the door open, looks over to see the brunet approaching with two mugs of coffee. ‘Here,’ the guy says, handing one over, before taking a seat on the neighbouring lounge.

They both sip in silence for a moment, before the brunet makes a kind of helpless, bleating noise and says, ‘Look, I’m just going to say it— When you, _you know_— Um— first showed up in my yard last night—’ the brunet trails off, frowning, _looking_ at him, eyes roaming over his face, his bare arms— ‘You weren’t _you_ Billy. You were— I don’t know how much you remember of what happened at the mall, but you turned into—’ again he trails off.

His head starts feeling kind of fuzzy, heartbeat echoing in his ears— ‘A _monster_. Are you saying I was—’

‘I don’t know if _monster’s_ the right word,’ the brunet says, looking uncomfortable. ‘It seems— Because you’re _not_ a monster. Like, _you’re really not_— but I don’t know what else to call it—’

‘Well _whatever it is_ are you saying I was _that_ when I landed in your pool?’

Steve looks away. ‘Yeah— but you were _you_ again when you came to the surface, only—’ brown eyes glance at him, then frown, worried.

‘What?’ he demands.

The brunet glances at the pack of cigarettes. ‘Can I have one?’

‘They’re _your_ cigarettes,’ he points out, but gets one out and hands it to the guy, lighting it for him— a smile creeping across his face at the way the brunet winces at the first lungful of smoke, taking the cylinder from between his lips to give the French cigarette a dirty look, before sighing out the smoke.

‘When you came out of the water you were covered in all these— is _wounds_ the right word? Like. Red, swollen _lines_ all swirled over you— fuck, they looked like they _hurt_ too— but then they started to fade, and now it’s—’ brown eyes examine his face again, ‘— I think I can still see them, but they’re faint—’

He reaches up reflexively, rubs a hand across the one over his nose. ‘Yeah— they’ve been there since I woke up, you know, _after—_’

‘I thought you looked a bit—’ Steve bites the bottom one of those coral lips. ‘I just didn’t want to say anything.’

He shrugs, ‘Yeah, well there’s the _bullet scars_ too, and I’m also about forty pounds heavier, so—’

And then he starts laughing. He doesn’t mean to, it’s just— ‘_Outside matches the inside_, huh? Fucking— _monster_. I was _doing better too_—’ and then the laughter shifts. He doesn’t start crying or anything, but instead this sound escapes— deep, almost _shrill_. It’s so fucking— He doesn’t even know. The feeling is so _complicated_. Frustrated and angry and scared and disappointed and so much like he wants to _hit something_— or maybe himself. Maybe get his car back and go driving down by the quarry as fast as he can until he loses control of the wheel and—

He’s not sure exactly what happens next, but Steve’s suddenly standing next to him, and his face is pressed against the blood-warm cloth of the guy’s t-shirt over his belly, and long fingers are stroking his hair, and— ‘I hope this is ok—’ and then the brunet starts making this _noise_. This humming—

His arms go up to hold the guy in place, face nuzzling in, whole body _shaking_. He can barely hear over the panicked sound of his own breath, but he can hear enough to know the humming is continuing. Smooth. _Soothing—_

He starts to feel— light. Head kind of _fizzing_. Sort of stupid, but a different kind of stupid. Stupid like being _high_— which isn’t a sensation he always likes. Sometimes it softens him up too much. Takes too much of his _control_— but now. He likes this. He rubs his face back and forth against the warmth of Steve’s body. This is good. This is—

Eventually Steve pulls back—somehow he manages not to _whine _at the loss— and says, ‘You’re _not _a monster,’ and then, ‘How about crepes, for, um, breakfast?’

‘Ok,’ he replies, brain coming back online. ‘These the crepes Robin was going on about?’

The brunet nods. ‘_And_ I’ve got real maple syrup now, so they’ll be even better— I suppose you’ll need to go home then. You should probably get changed if we’re going to go pick up Max— _are_ you getting Max today?’

He shrugs. ‘Wasn’t clear, I think she was just going to ring me when she got sick of them—’

There’s a pause, the brunet chewing on his bottom lip. ‘Do you think we should tell anyone about—? Because— I mean. I want to say Hopper will help— and I know Mrs Byers would if she could— but I really don’t think there’s anyone who can do anything about, _you know_, and— Maybe I’m being— hah— _stupid_— but I can see too many ways this could all end with you locked up in a lab somewhere.’

The thought makes him shudder. No. _Never_.

Steve’s right. He already knew pretty much everything the guy said, and anyway— ‘I don’t want to bring anyone else into this. I don’t want to tell anyone. Fuck. I don’t want to _talk about it_, ok? Just. Let’s— let’s forget about it. If it happens again— We’ll work something out then, but this is the first time it’s happened since— So—’

‘It might not happen again?’ the brunet suggests, not looking even remotely convinced, but it seems it’s what they’re both hoping for, because when he nods Steve nods too.

They head back inside then, the brunet stopping to scoop up his horrible bat from where it’s lying under one of the other lounges, glancing at him with something like guilt. ‘I didn’t know it was you at first, last night—’

So he’d been ready to defend himself— He nods. ‘Smart move—’ he just wishes he could reassure himself with the idea that the bat would even _hurt_ something like— _that_ him— if it came down to it. Fuck. If something else gets loose from the Upside Down—

He’ll get Max, El, and Steve— maybe the little Byers kid— oh, and _Erica_— together somewhere he can keep them safe— He’s gotta believe he can keep them safe.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: for homophobic language, references to child abuse, and the usual Billy-language stuff. I don't think I've missed any, but like always please tell me if I have. 
> 
> OK, as things stand right now this might be the last chapter until the end of January, but more chapters *are* coming, I promise. I hope you've all been having a great festive season/end of the year/etc. without too much stress. Um. I feel kind of- something- for leaving the story here before the bit of a break, but... Anyway. When next we resume we shall be resuming from Steve's POV, so there's that to look forward to. Thank you all so much for reading, for commenting and for the kudos, and for letting me know you're enjoying my writing! Have a Happy New Year everyone!

Like yesterday it’s kind of interesting watching Steve cook— though the brunet doesn’t seem to be enjoying the solo attention that much— not that he seems pissed off or anything, more a bit nervous, shoulders getting tenser the longer he— Ok. Yeah. Maybe _staring_ at the guy is kind of a dick move, but it’s _interesting_. Steve seems to know what he’s doing more that _Susan_ does, at least, and the end result is—

Fuck the crepes are fucking—

_Perfection_.

‘How the fuck did you learn to cook like this?’ he demands in between big, sticky, _sweet_ bites.

The brunet shrugs, looking down, a bit _awkward_— words skipping over themselves, almost tripping each other up. He’s fucking _shy_ about it— how fucking _adorable_. ‘I just _can_. Like— If I see someone cook something usually I can remember everything they did— all the ingredients and how much and what they did with them— and if not the first time, then after the _second_— _techniques_ too— and what goes with what, so if I actually _try _I can usually make things up myself— and it’s just— it’s _easy_. I don’t know why— It’s weird really. I mean. I’m not— Well. For whatever reason it’s something I’m actually _good at_. Something not _athletic_, anyway.’

‘You seem pretty good with the kids, even though they’re—’ he sighs, just thinking about them.

‘Little shits?’ Steve asks, then laughs. ‘Yeah. _Weird_ isn’t it? It’s not how I ever pictured myself— though you are pretty good with Max, and El, and at least the boys _listen_ to you— Fuck. I’d ask you to teach me how to be scary, but—’

He laughs at the idea. ‘You’re too—’

‘What?’ Steve asks, smiling all friendly at him. ‘Too much of a _loser_?’

And the guy’s all soft and sweet and it’s almost a joke, but part of him doesn’t like it, wants to— and the words just slip out. ‘No. You’re— Steve Harrington you are too good a person to scare children.’

The forkful of crepe the brunet had been lifting to his mouth is slowly placed back down, brown eyes _staring_ at him. Then Steve goes bright red— not even pink—but _red_ and makes a strangled groaning sound.

‘What?’ he asks, but Steve doesn’t answer, just— Is the guy _actually_ malfunctioning? ‘Jesus, _what?_’

‘It’s _stupid_—’ the brunet manages eventually. ‘Oh my God is it stupid. Sorry, I’m being— Wow. _Lame_.’

‘Come on, now I’m _curious_.’

An uncomfortable little shrug. ‘I don’t know man, it’s—’ Steve blows out a breath. ‘As I said, I’m being _lame_. I’m sure you didn’t really _mean _it to be a big thing, or anything, I just don’t know how often someone’s called me a “good person”— so, yeah. _Lame_.’

It makes him feel weirdly— _embarrassed_— but not in a bad way, so he repeats it, trying to convince the guy of what’s so fucking _obvious_.

‘But— _no_. I’m really _not_—’ Steve insists. ‘Seriously, you should talk to Robin— or, like, _anyone_ I went to school with before— Well, pretty much before _you_ came to town, though that wasn’t what— _changed_ things— Maybe not _Tommy_—’ the brunet’s face twists, something bitter coming over it. ‘I can’t _imagine_ what he’d tell you. Or Carol— but, like _anyone else_.’

‘Yeah, but people are _idiots_,’ he points out. ‘How many of those people you’re telling me to ask actually _knew you?_’

Steve frowns. ‘What do you mean? It’s not like I’m all that _deep_, what you see is pretty much what you get.’

He almost laughs. In the time he’s know Steve he’s seen all sorts of different Steves— from that cold, aloof, seemingly judgemental guy he used to harass, to Steve with a baseball bat scared but ready to face off against _monsters,_ to Steve with the kids— kind of exasperated but always trying to _help_— to the Steve he’s sometimes seen when it’s just the two of them. So unbearably— Ok. Yeah, _faggy_ but— _Sweet_. Then he realises, ‘Wait. You really think that, don’t you?’

‘What?’ the brunet’s face scrunches up like he thinks he’s being criticised.

‘Most of the people in this town they’re—’ his face scrunches up even thinking about them, all smiles and small-town stupidity— ‘They’re shallow as _fuck_— but you—?’ he shakes his head, ‘You’re not like that. _Not at all_.’

Steve blinks at him for a moment, not getting any less _red_, before nodding. ‘I gotta say there’s a lot more to _you_ too than I ever expected—’ the brunet says, sounding a little— _off_.

After that Steve’s a bit weird. Not— Not _angry_ with him, or mean, or _frightened_, or even back to that cold, unimpressed guy of when they first met— Just— Quiet. Quiet and a little brittle, almost. Fucking _weird_.

Makes this unpleasant feeling start building up in his chest. Not quite _guilt_, but— Like he’s afraid he’s done something wrong but doesn’t know what. His first instinct is to get _mean_, put Steve down before the other guy can make him feel like shit about himself, but— It’s _Steve_. That would be— Fuck. He doesn’t want to make the guy look like— Not _again _anyway. He’s had a gutful of the consequences of hurting Steve Harrington already.

After breakfast the brunet drives him back home— Quiet. Quiet the whole ride— He stares out the passenger window and smokes one of the Gauloises— now _his_ if he wants the pack, and who’s he to turn down free cigarettes?

‘You want to come in for a coffee?’ he asks when they get there.

Steve hesitates— ‘Um. Ok?’

Ah— _Keys_. Hm— Fucking _Neil_ won’t let them leave out a spare, or leave the house unlocked, so—

Wait— did he get out the night before?

He leads the brunet around the side of the house to his bedroom— window wide fucking open. He climbs in, waits for Steve to follow— but the guy is giving him a _look_.

‘It’s not like I was thinking what I was doing last night,’ he points out.

The guy concedes the point, following him in through his bedroom window. The brunet tries not to be too obvious about checking out the space, eyes seeming to linger on a couple of his posters, before looking over at him. ‘Coffee?’

He gets a pot started, checking the answering machine while they wait. The first one is from Adam at the pool.

‘Hi man, this is Adam. _Adam_ who works with you at the pool in case I’ve become irrelevant to you since we last spoke—’ a bit of a chuckle there, no sign the guy’s mad at him or anything. _Weird_. ‘Pool’s closed today so you don’t have to come in— Joey Mackinson— you’ve probably got no idea who that is, but he’s like _twelve_ and a total turd— hah!— had some massive diarrhoea death shit in it yesterday after you left— No idea what they’re feeding that kid but someone should probably do something about it because _oh my God_ it was _rank_— and it was supposed to be all cleaned out by today but now half the equipment’s like _fucked_— seriously, _what are they feeding that kid?_— and it’s all way above any of our pay grade so they’re getting someone in to fix it— which I wish I knew before I showed up. Um, yeah— supposedly someone will keep us informed. Yeah—’

Fucking _yuck_. Glad he missed that. At least he doesn’t have to worry about his job now.

And then a message from Mr Duvall telling him he can come and pick up his car any time after lunch— The satisfaction he expects at that doesn’t come. A glance at the brunet— frowning to himself and looking out the window— _Of course he’ll still see Steve around_. As long as the kids—

Still. Not like he can ask the brunet to hang around at his house until after lunch and then drive him to pick up his car— If Max had called then— _Actually_.

‘Hey!’ brown eyes meet his, ‘How about we forget the shit coffee here and go get Max and El and take them out for waffles? I’ve been meaning to treat El after all the shit she’s been through. Coffee’s better at the diner anyway—’

A small smile flickers over that handsome face. ‘Sounds good.’

He has to get changed first— but of course he can’t spend as much time fixing his hair— or even shaving his _face_— as he’d like, so he looks a bit like a bum— _Why is he always looking like a bum in front of Steve_? But a splash of Aramis means he at least _smells_ good.

Mind you Steve himself is wandering around with his flowing locks brushing his shoulders instead of coiffured up into their usual mane— Though the guy still looks _great_. He’d almost say better than usual. How the fuck is that _possible_?

At the Byers house no one’s there but Max, El and the little Byers kid— Mrs. Byers and the Chief are apparently at work and larger Byers off with Wheeler somewhere— Fuck. It’s not like they can invite the girls but leave the little fag behind—

Which is how he ends up at the diner with Steve, Max, El and the least shitty child that isn’t _Erica_. Little Byers seems nervous and keeps making noise about not having much money when Max tries to get him to order whatever frothy concoction of cream and syrup she thinks he needs—

‘Kid, look. _I’m _the one paying, get what you like.’ It’s just like with Max the first time around— fucking weirdly _responsible_ kids. Yeah, sure, when he was fourteen he never expected anyone to do _shit_ for him— no free rides and all— but Max and little Byers are not _him_. They deserve better than the shit that comes from having _Neil_ as a dad.

‘I can—’ Steve begins.

‘Nope. No way Steve, I am treating _you all_. Give way under my largesse.’

By the time the kids are done they’re all whining and nauseous— ‘I told you, didn’t I Maxine? You did _not_ need that second milkshake—’

‘You bought it for me so it’s _your_ fault,’ is her moaned argument against that idea. ‘Oh God I’m gonna be _sick_.’

Since she’s apparently not bored of El and little Byers yet— which, ok, he can get that— he agrees to let Steve drop them back at the horrible Byers house before he and the brunet go to get his car.

She wants him to then go get her bike and bring it over to the Byers’ so she can go home whenever she wants— but, _like_ _fuck_. ‘Nope. No way Maxine, you are _ringing me_ and I am _coming to get you_. Especially if it’s late. You are _not_ biking around this creepy shithole in the dark. You get eaten by a monster I am not going to be fucking _pleased_.’

She bitches a bit about that but eventually gives up.

When they get back to the awful Byers place bigger Byers and Wheeler— _Wheeler _Wheeler, not _shitty kid _Wheeler, emerge from the house with faces both pinched in fuck-ugly little frowns. They _look_ at him. Look at him like he’s something fucking _gross_ the cat’s dragged in and then want to talk to Steve or something.

He remembers that he wanted to talk to them— well, rip them both a new one for not taking care of El while he was trapped in the Russian base— but now does not seem to be the time. Anyway, might upset little Byers— kid almost always looks on the verge of tears anyway— and he does not want that on his conscience.

‘You don’t have to talk to them if you don’t want to,’ he tells the brunet as he leans back on the beemer, shaking out one of the Gauloises and lighting up with his zippo.

Steve gives him a funny look, then a small, strange little smile— but then goes off to talk to the two losers. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but they’ve pulled the brunet in close, the two of them leaning into his personal space and talking to him intently—

He thinks Steve looks uncomfortable, one hand going to his sexy hair again and again, brushing it out of his face—

—

He starts getting _real pissed off_. It’s fucking _obvious_ Steve wants nothing to do with them, that they’re getting in his space, _upsetting_ him. What the fuck do they think they’re doing, huh? What gives them the right to—? And in _what universe_ is Wheeler allowed to put her hand on his arm like that, to duck her head down to catch his gaze because he’s avoiding her eyes, to just—

_Touch him_.

They can’t _touch him_. He’s _not theirs to touch_—

And then Tommy fucking H.’s voice starts echoing in his ears.

_—on his knees for psycho Byers_— and —_she probably got sick of sharing—_

He wants to go over there, to wrap his arms around Steve— or maybe put himself between the brunet and those two— make it _clear_ they’re not welcome. That Steve’s not interested. That they’re not allowed to even _look at_, let alone _touch_ what isn’t—

Theirs.

—

—

_Oh_—

—

Fuck.

—

He almost drops the cigarette.

No.

No no no no no nononononononononono _NO_.

—

_FUCK_.

—

—

—

Fuck.

—

When Steve’s done with them the brunet comes back over to the car— annoyed, he can tell. Pissed off and upset about whatever that was about.

And all he can think is _fuck, he’s fucking **gorgeous**_.

And just _fuck_.

And _no no no no—_

Oh fucking _no_.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Dysfunctional family relationships, hints a verbal/psychological child abuse, sexist and homophobic language, mentions of that creep at the pool, possibly more. Do let me know.
> 
> Wow. So I managed to get this bit done. Yay me! So here we are from Steve's perspective, and learning that Steve is also good at (an admittedly different kind of) denial. It's been a shitty couple of months here in Australia, with the fires, with the political incompetence, and I hope everyone- all readers from everywhere- are well and safe right now. Thank you all, so very much, for reading my story, for the comments and the kudos! Take care of yourselves!

Billy Hargrove is the single most confusing person in existence. _Oh God_. So _confusing_.

First the apology— right on the heels of basically being accused of being a _pussy_ if he needs one, and then— just— _all of it_.

Billy is not gay. Billy is not bisexual. Billy is not _remotely_ interested in guys— and above all Billy is not _flirting_. He has to keep telling himself that. Billy is not _flirting with him_. Billy would _never_ flirt with a guy— Billy needs to learn how to interact with him in a way that’s less like flirting if that’s the case because the guy is sending— just— the most _mixed_ messages. Sometimes not even _mixed_, sometimes just—

But Billy isn’t interested in guys. He is _not_. He worked that out the first time, when the guy beat his face in, even though before that—

Billy must just be a very flirty guy—

Ok. Not with _everyone_. Not even with _most people_. So far just with hot girls and _him_— with most guys Billy is— wow. The guy is _amazingly_ hostile— Like poor Mr. Duvall. Like _Hopper_— but—

_God_.

It’s making him—

And he knows he has to be careful, that one _whiff_ of the fact he’s bisexual and Billy will— Billy will—

_Hurt him_.

But—

Every now and then he forgets and gets carried away and it’s so _nice_— Billy is so _nice_ to him. All— _protective_ and stuff— and oh how he hates the fact that _that_ does it for him— but—

And the guy didn’t even get totally homicidal even though he was basically on the blond’s dick all night— which makes it sound way different that it actually was— because it’s not like he was _on his dick_— so much as Billy was all freaked out after—

And who wouldn’t be freaked out? _He_ was freaked out and he didn’t even turn into a monster— and obviously there is a level of freaked out that means even _Billy Hargrove _will start seeking physical comfort from whoever’s around— and that person just happened to be _him_— and—

In the shower. Billy _naked_. Billy’s _dick_—

It’s such a _nice dick_ too— Like, not _too big_ and well proportioned and a nice fleshy _pink_ when it’s hard.

And it was _hard_. Underneath his thigh. For _hours_.

—

And the way Billy had seemed to want to get his clothes off. Like _Tommy_ or Carol when—

But, as the guy had said, just because he was— _whatever that was_— doesn’t mean Billy was trying to _fuck him_. Vain of him. _So vain_.

He still feels kind of humiliated for bringing it up, for being put back in his place— but at least the blond was _nice about it_. Didn’t _hit him_ or anything.

Just

— not trying to fuck him.

Because Billy would never want to fuck him.

Because Billy is _straight_.

Because _he needs to remember that_.

Actually, what he _needs_ is to talk to Robin. Oh God does he need to talk to Robin— He’s, like, done his _best_ to avoid answering any of her questions about what kind of guys he finds hot— because basically any answer he gives is just going to lead back to _Billy Hargrove,_ _Billy Hargrove is **exactly** the kind of guy he finds hot_— and he’s pretty sure she’s going to be—

_Disappointed in him_.

Sad to say he still hasn’t found a way to make the two of them— even _get on_, let alone like each other. He gets it though. Billy is very— _masculine_. Masculine in a way that’s not very—

It’s—

Hm.

—

He would say it’s not very _enlightened_, or like sensitive or whatever, but the way Billy is with Max. With _El_—

But still he’s—

Billy’s just very _masculine_, whatever that means, and Robin’s—

Pretty much sick of guys’ bullshit, he’d say. Like _Nancy_—

And oh _God_ that was awkward. Her and Jonathan pulling him aside and interrogating him about what he was doing with _Billy Hargrove _of all people, and why the kids were with them, and then pretty much telling him off for letting either El or Will go anywhere with the guy— and he doesn’t think what El does is any of their business— more _Hopper’s_, and Hopper hasn’t said anything about her not being allowed near Billy as far as he knows—

When he’d tried to explain that Billy isn’t like what they think he’s like they’d pointed out the whole, you know, _concussion_ thing— Which, _yeah_, but that was _then_. Either Billy’s changed or the guy doesn’t hate him so much anymore, and even so— well, _yeah_, the guy did kind of attack Lucas that night too— but _since_ _then_ Billy hasn’t— well. _Tommy_, but— _Anyway_, Tommy is not El or Will. Billy _likes_ El— seems to like _Will_ too— or at least hates him less than the other boys, but, you know, pointing out that Will isn’t _Mike_ and so is probably isn’t going to piss Billy off anytime soon isn’t exactly the kind of argument you can make to _Mike’s_ _sister_.

It’d all left him feeling small and _stupid_. Like Nancy really doesn’t trust his judgement— and the way she’d _looked at him_. Ok, yeah, he is kind of a mess and, yeah, he hasn’t done his hair— but none of that was Billy’s fault—

Except it kind of was, but not for any reason he was going to explain to her. He cannot imagine their reaction to the whole _Monster Billy sleepwalking into his pool_ thing. Or Billy trying to get him naked. Or Billy’s dick—

_Anyway_, even if all _that_ hadn’t happened he’d probably still be looking pretty crappy today. He had been sitting on the kitchen floor drinking and kind of crying to himself when the horrible clatter of Monster Billy’s many bony feet skittering up the driveway had made him freak the fuck right out.

He’s almost kind of pissed at Dustin for the Zener cards— not that he should be, it’s just— _bad memories_. Probably why he had that nightmare that led to him just _giving up_ on sleep and deciding the drink himself into incoherence in the kitchen instead.

Though— maybe if he hadn’t gone and found the proper deck—

Between the association with Uncle Martin and finding all the cards _Tommy_ defaced— which he’d forgotten about. Stupid of him. He would have had to remove them before he gave the pack to the kids— He doesn’t like the idea of El— or even _Dustin_— being stuck saying, “Cock and Balls!” and “Big hairy pussy!” and “Tits!” and “Tommy’s cock is the biggest cock in Hawkins!” and “Lick my asshole!” and “I’m a faggot in a miniskirt!” the way Tommy used to find it so funny to make _him_.

Seeing the guy’s writing— and his ugly little drawings— had made him feel— _sad_. Really. _Hurt_.

At least he didn’t dream of the guy calling him a faggot or something, or— yeah.

No. Instead of having a sensible nightmare— You know, dreaming of the Upside Down and _monsters_— he ended up dreaming about back when Uncle Martin was trying to fix him. It was the cards— stupid fucking cards.

It’s not like it was that bad, the dream. He was here, at home, not at some dream version of the “lab” that Uncle Martin always wanted to take him to— the idea scared the crap out of him, even as a little kid— Hah. Funny. He has his _dad_ to thank for never being taken there, the man didn’t want other people to see, to _know_ his son was a retard and even a mind like Uncle Martin was having trouble fixing him.

So, yeah, _here_. In the room that Uncle Martin used to use before the man and his dad had that big fight and Uncle Martin was banned from the house—

It’s a guestroom now.

He still hates going in there.

In the dream he had that thing on his head again and Uncle Martin was trying to make him do whatever it was with the cards but it wasn’t happening— like always once the guy started getting mad at him— and the man was getting _angrier and angrier_ and he could _feel it_ in the air around them, suffocating him—

Then that was happening but he could also hear his Uncle talking to his mom, the way you can sometimes in dreams, when more than one thing is happening at once— and then her telling him to just _try harder Stevie, you can do this if you just **put the effort in**_— except also, at the same time, his uncle telling her that it’s hopeless, _he’s_ hopeless, _there’s nothing there Diane, whatever potential— if there is anything there it barely **registers**— he is weaker that **either** of us, and compared to **Jane**_—_ I’m afraid to say, but I think you have **wasted** yourself in your choice of husband—_ and fragments of his mother’s voice— _you’ve seen Joe with women, what he can_— then **_Don’t _**_remind me. He is— **a man like **that—** Divorce him**. Try again_— _you’re still young enough to_— and _I will **not** end up like our mother, you have **no idea** what it was like living with her—_

And he’d just felt so _bad_. So very bad. All the disappointment and _anger_ and all of it pressing him down until he felt like he was going to— _disappear_.

Yeah.

So, it’s not like _Billy’s_ appearance in his backyard is entirely to blame for him looking like shit.

He hates that he’s kind of mad at Nancy now. He doesn’t want to be mad at Nancy. Nancy is— she is so _amazing_— but—

When he’d escaped her and Jonathan and gone back to the car Billy had been weird. _Weirder _than even normal Billy weirdness, and it makes him think the guy must have heard at least _part_ of what they were saying and maybe they actually managed to _hurt Billy Hargrove’s feelings_— So he now feels kind of bad and hopes Billy is ok, but can’t find out, because the guy hadn’t extended any more invitations to coffee or food or anything and just wanted to be dropped off at the garage to get his car. Hell, Billy didn’t even want him to stick around, even though—

He hopes it’s ok. It should be ok. Mr Duvall and Billy seemed to be getting on ok by the end of last time, didn’t they?

Fuck. That part of dealing with Billy is really _stressful_. The way you never know if he’s just going to go _off_ on, like, _every guy_ you encounter— Not that he blames the guy for telling off that old pervert who was looking at the girls— and Billy wasn’t imagining it either, he saw the guy too— but instead of thinking of going and starting a scene and getting in the man’s face he’d been thinking maybe they should go, or encourage the girls to swim or go to some part of the pool where the man couldn’t see them— He feels kind of cowardly actually, in comparison—

But he could still see how freaked out El was at Billy’s behaviour— even if Max did seem _used to it_.

Of course the whole thing’s that _man’s_ fault. If people weren’t gross then— but people _are_ gross, and if people are going to be gross then it’s probably better to have someone like Billy getting in their face about it than everyone just pretending it’s not happening and letting them get away with it. Right?

Anyway. Mr Duvall is not like that. The guy is actually _really nice_. Like when his grandpa sent him his car and his dad got all upset because— well, _one_ his grandpa sent it to him and his dad doesn’t talk to his grandpa anymore, and _two_ it was _BMW_ and his dad refuses to drive anything that isn’t a _Mercedes_.

His dad had insisted the car go to Mr Duvall’s garage to be checked out, where he’d then started going on about how it was a lemon and everything that was wrong with it— even though his dad knows _nothing_ about cars— and that they’d have to sell it and _he’d_ started getting upset— embarrassing to admit— because his grandpa had given it to him and it was the first he’d heard from him since he’d decided to stop annoying the old man all the time— and then Mr Duvall had butted in and told his dad there was _nothing wrong with the car_, that _she’s a beauty,_ and to _stop tormenting the poor kid_.

God his dad had _gone off_— and not even _Billy_ goes off like his dad does— but Mr Duvall hadn’t backed down— not through all the _don’t you know who I am?s_ and the _I’ll ruin you_s and the _no one in this shithole town will ever use your garage again_!s. Shows how powerful his dad _actually is_, doesn’t it? Mr Duvall is still in business because Mr Duvall is liked and respected and Hawkins _bedrock_— and even his dad’s Benzes get serviced there— not that his dad will go anywhere near the garage in _person_, no, it’s up to _him_ to drop them off.

So it should be fine— and it’s not like Billy _needs _him to—

It’s not even like with his dad— though he learnt to smooth things over with other people in the first place dealing with the man, when he was— _too aggressively himself_— but, unless he really loses his temper, his dad tries to play nice in Hawkins, where people might remember, and since he got old enough to be left alone the “family vacations” seem to have evaporated in favour of his dad heading somewhere where there’s bound to be pretty girls— usually in _skimpy_ clothes— his mom close on the man’s heels and him left behind— With Billy it’s more that he— Wow. Ok. _Lame_. It’s more that he wants to _help _the guy, and less the mortification of watching his dad be unreasonable to some poor schmuck who’s done _nothing_ to deserve it.

He really needs to talk to Robin— he just hopes she’s not too mad at him.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: for internalised homophobia and fear of violent homophobic reprisal, mentions of past situations where guys have tried to take advantage of drunk girls, please let me know if I missed any.
> 
> Sorry I pretty much disappeared after posting the last chapter and didn't reply to anyone's comments. I have no excuse other than depression sucks and can make one pretty much entirely useless. Thank you all for reading though, and for the comments and kudos, they do always mean a lot to me! There was a moment there when the story had exactly 300 comments and kudos at the same time, which I thought was pretty neat. (Also, please forgive Robin's reluctance to state the obvious in this chapter. Billy's gotta work a bit harderfirst.)

After ringing her and asking her to come over he gets started on yet more oatmeal raisin cookies— which, ok, _bribery_. He can’t even pretend it’s anything otherwise. Like, _worst case scenario_ if she decides she doesn’t want anything to do with him anymore because of the _Billy_ thing she might change her mind if he offers to make her cookies all the time, right? They are good. He’s not just kidding himself.

Is he?

No. _No_. He could almost believe the others were just being nice, but _Billy_—

When Robin arrives it’s to the smell of cookies in the oven and a cup of coffee all ready for her. He admires her for a moment— not in a _creepy boy way_— just in a _happy to see her_ way. Her fashion choices now that they’re free of the terrible Scoops uniform continue to be both practical and cool in ways he’d never have thought of. Like today— black jeans, a t-shirt with some band he’s never heard of’s logo on the front— and she’s got what looks like the spiky black collar of what must be the tiniest, _fiercest_ chihuahua ever wrapped around the bun on her head. Wow. If she hates him after this—

He is not sure he’ll be able to cope.

He sits her down at the table— ‘Ok, dingus. What’s wrong? You look like someone just gave you a puppy— only to take it off you and run it over in front of you instead.’

His face scrunches up automatically at the image. He can’t look _that _bad. He’s pretty sure that he— like every sensible person— would either be crying on the floor or chasing the puppy murderer with his bat at that point. ‘Don’t be mad at me—’ is how he begins. Because that is the number one concern he has right now.

‘Ok, _that _is not how I want to hear a sentence start— _ever_. What’s wrong Stevie? Is it Tommy H. and Carol—? You _didn’t—_ did you?’

‘No, it’s not—’ what, is she thinking they came around and he accidentally sucked Tommy’s dick or something again? ‘_No_. No— I think they’re still—’ he shrugs, kind of uncomfortable. _Avoiding him_. Yeah, aside from Carol in the Big Buy looking at him like he’s filth she just scraped off her shoe— fuck. Also, _why the hell did Tommy attack Billy?_ Talk about suicidal. Tommy’s a lot of things but he’s actually _not stupid_. His grades are like— almost up there with Nancy’s— Enough avoidance. ‘You know how I’m bisexual?’

She nods. ‘Don’t worry, I have not forgotten that _Steve_ _Harrington_ is a _bisexual_.’

‘Ok, but maybe can you not be like _that _about it—’ when she’s all _Steve Harrington is a bisexual/can cook/is an amazing dweeb/likes, like, the **worst** Queen songs_ he always feels like Steve Harrington is someone that he’s never met before and probably wouldn’t want to hang out with him anyway. ‘Um—’ probably best to get it over with, ‘—IhavethestupidestcrushonBillyandIdon’tknowwhattodobecauseheisseriously_so_confusing—’

He sees her brows twitch, eyes flicking back and forth as she tries to work out what he just blurted, before— ‘Ah.’

Wait— She _does not look surprised_. ‘What do you mean “Ah”?’ he demands.

‘Do you want me to pretend I didn’t notice?—‘ she asks, tilting her head and looking at him, ‘Because that’s what I originally planned to do, but I seem to have— Ok. I blew it. I admit it.’

His brain kind of stalls for a minute before suddenly all he can think is if _she_ noticed what if _Billy_ noticed too— and then he starts panicking. He says— _something_— but honestly she’s probably got as much of an idea as he does at this point, and he has _no_ idea what the collection of blurted syllables that just escaped his mouth actually mean—

It takes her a moment to work out what he’s panicking about, but then she immediately rushes to reassure him that just because _she_ noticed doesn’t mean Billy has any clue. ‘You’d know if he knew, Stevie _trust me_, you would know—’ she keeps saying.

She’s right, of course, because Billy would _kill him_— but when he tells her that she just laughs at him. ‘No, no— Stevie don’t look like _that_—’ she manages in between chuckles. ‘—He wouldn’t _kill you_. I mean— I don’t _think_ he’d kill you— it’s more that I don’t think he’d know what to do, like, _at all_. I think it’d _break_ him—'

Which— actually, that kind of _hurts_. And she must see that, because she keeps trying to say she doesn’t mean it like that— but then not explaining how she _does_ mean it.

The cookies are soon ready, so he can distract himself getting them out of the oven, shifting each one to the cooling racks with kind of jerkier than he’d like movements. He kind of wishes he hadn’t invited Robin over—

Then she’s wrapping her arms around him from behind and saying, ‘Sorry Stevie’ softly, with her face buried in his still unstyled hair.

‘You’re right though,’ he concedes. ‘He wouldn’t know how to handle it. It’d— He’d be so _disgusted_. Creeped out. He’d think I was— a pervert and a freak and—’

She snorts out a breath against the side of his neck, still hanging off him. ‘Who cares what that jerk thinks? What do you see in him anyway? He’s like, _psycho_— you heard what he did to— actually, _no_, now is probably not the best time to— or _ever_— but— um— yeah, I mean, I know everyone thinks he’s _hot_— but it’s not just you being shallow, is it?’ she sounds almost _hopeful_.

He shrugs, hiding behind his hair, trying to avoid her gaze on the side of his face.

She pokes him in the ribs, making him squirm. ‘Come on Stevie, tell your aunt Robin why you think that Hargrove boy is so dreamy—’ a pause and then she shudders. ‘Wow— that was just— a _dead on_ impression of my aunt Marge. I did not know I could do that.’

He grabs one of the cookies and waves it at her. ‘If you stop asking about Billy I’ll give you a cookie—’ he offers.

‘You’ll give me one anyway, don’t kid yourself,’ she says, and, ok, he _does_, but that’s just because she snatches it from his grasp and he lets her have it in the hope that if she’s stuffing her face she’ll forget he basically invited her over to tell her he has a crush on Billy and now doesn’t want to talk about it.

She leans against the counter next to him as he transfers the rest of the cookies to the cooling rack, snatching another one when she’s finished the first. He still can’t quite look at her.

He feels kind of guilty and wrong and _sick_.

He doesn’t want to _break_ Billy—

The next thing he knows she’s waggling a white cylinder under his nose and his brain is thinking, _what, weed?_ but before he can snatch it from her she’s pulling it back out of his reach.

‘Nah-uh,’ she says. ‘This— and the _others_— are getting lit _only_ when you give me even _one_ good reason why Billy Hargrove is worth having a crush on.’

He makes a plaintive noise at her. It’s been— _ages_. He has missed getting high— but Carol used to be the one who’d buy it for the three of them and _after_ he’d suddenly found himself in the awkward position of being too much of a loser for any of the cool kids to seem to want to sell to, and too much of a “cool kid” to know which of the so-called losers to ask. Anyway, he’s got his parents’ wine cellar, all the bottles he’s rescued and hidden, all that cheap but _good_ wine from strange little European vineyards no one has ever heard of that his mother buys and then his father demands be removed from the house before someone sees and thinks he can’t afford the good stuff.

‘Come on Stevie, tell me—’ she teases, waggling the joint at him.

‘_Robin_,’ he whines, making _gimme_ hands.

She does not relent. She doesn’t even hand it over when he offers to trade her for a cookie— though she does look a bit _torn_— and in the end he blurts out something like, ‘I don’t know, sometimes he’s _nice to me_.’

He _is_, that’s the thing. The worst thing. Like— part of him thinks it would be enough to have someone who was sometimes _nice_ to him, who’d hold him like Billy did the night before— not all the time, that’s probably asking too much really— who wouldn’t call him names and would acknowledge they were a _thing_ and wouldn’t tell him he’s _bullshit_ or _cheat on him_— and maybe who would let him get them off every now and then. It’s been feeling more and more like expecting anything _more_ is— yeah. Probably not going to happen.

That would be about as good as he’s ever had it anyway.

He could feel Nancy was one step out the door pretty much their entire relationship— and God, it used to make him feel _sick_ sometimes— and the stuff with Tommy and Carol—

‘That can’t be it,’ she says, looking at him with big, kind of _sad_, eyes. ‘He beat your face in, and even if he _didn’t_ he’s not _that_ nice— you can’t just like him because he’s _nice to you_. That can’t be what _nice to you_ looks like— _I’m_ nicer to you— not that I mean— _you know what I mean_— Surely he can’t be so much nicer to you than, like, _everyone else_. Come on. Give me another reason—’

He shrugs, but doesn’t go into the way that Billy has been so much nicer to him than almost _everyone_ recently. Ok, not _her_, but— There’s too much— There’s stuff he doesn’t want to say out loud, or _admit_ to her, there. So, what’s another reason he has a crush on Billy—? ‘He smells nice?’ he offers. ‘He’s— _even you admitted he’s **hot**_.’

‘Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I want to lick him or anything,’ she says, face scrunching up at the thought.

He feels himself go red. Mind going places he never wants to tell her about. Thinking about Billy’s dick— and it is such a _nice _dick. It’d probably feel really good in his mouth— He feels his own twitch. Blood headed where he doesn’t want it right now—

At least the terror had kept it at bay last night and this morning, but without Billy in front of him to remind him of why it is such a _bad idea_—

Even as scared as he was part of him had kind of wanted to, when Billy was still asleep, still wrapped around him, dick hot and hard under his thigh— but aside from the fact that Billy would have pretty much _murdered him_ the moment he woke up, that’s not the sort of thing you should ever do without _asking_. Without them saying _yes_— You’d think that would be obvious, but then you’d also think he’d never had to help _remove_ guys from parties who hadn’t gotten the message.

Thinking about stuff like that makes him tense. _Tenser_. So he tries, ‘And he’s got, you know, nice _hands_,’ in case that’ll convince her to hand over the weed.

She gives him a _look_. ‘What’s so nice about them? They just look like _hands_ to me.’

Big, strong hands with broad palms, short nails, and practical fingers. The kind of hands that look like they can do _things_. Things like fix the sink or move furniture or chop wood for the fireplace instead of calling someone in to do it— _Manly_ hands.

Billy’s so _strong_.

Billy’s—

‘Robin, come on,’ he whines. ‘I have given you—’ he thinks back, counting, ‘_Four_ reasons why I think Billy is hot— hand over the weed.’

‘I said one_ good _reason—’ she begins, before relenting, ‘But I suppose four not really good reasons might as well count as one good one.’

They take some of the cookies with them into the den, curling up together on the couch while she fusses with the joint and a well-used book of matches, the striker almost worn bare. It makes him think of Billy’s Zippo— the effortless _cool_ of the way he lights his endless cigarettes.

He groans, resting his burning face against her shoulder. She manages to get the joint lit, wrapping one arm around his shoulder and waving it at him once she’d done with it. He takes it from her, shaking his head when she asks, ‘You wanna put on some music or something?’

Hah. If anything he kind of wants to fucking _disappear_ right now—

He _hates_ the thought of being something that could _break_ someone, _anyone_, but _Billy_— Funny. He’s never really been _ashamed _of liking guys before. He probably just didn’t think about it, think it through—

Later they’re on the floor, Queen on the stereo—because he’s _boring, ok Erica, he gets it_— and she curls herself around him and keeps telling him she didn’t mean it, not like _that_, that she’s _sorry_, and he tells her it’s _ok_, because it _is_. It’s all ok.

_He’s_ ok.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Internalised homophobia, ableist language, emotional child abuse, please tell me if I missed any.
> 
> Yay a chapter! You're all such lovely, supportive people and I can't thank you enough for the kind comments on the last chapter. I hope you enjoy this one, apparently the fic has decided what it wants for now is further adventures in Steve's high-functioning depression so we may be with him for a few chapters yet. Thank you all for reading and I hope you're all safe and having a good time!

Then he doesn’t hear from Billy, or see him around town, all week, all weekend, and then into the next week. It makes him feel— Day to day this pervasive sense of guilt starts lingering, like he’s done something really, really, _really_ wrong— and not even Max mentioning Billy for the first time since whatever has happened— when the kids showing up like usual to watch some movie and eat anything he’ll make them the next Thursday makes him feel any better.

And it was _so _hard waiting for Max to finally mention Billy— because no way has he been game to ask about him, in case she reads more into the question than he wants her to. In her— _Maxish_— way she tells him that Billy’s been really _weird_— but she thinks it’s because stuff is even tenser than it usually is between him and his dad and she’s worried they’re going to have a _massive_ fight— and he’s also been working as many hours at the pool as he can since it’s open again after it closed for a couple of days because Joey Mackinson had terrible diarrhoea in it and broke everything— _wow, gross, he **did not** need to hear that_— and she thinks maybe he’s planning to get his own place— though she rushes to add that she doesn’t think he’ll leave Hawkins as if _she_ knows about his _feelings_ too— which he doubts. She’s too _nice_ to him. If she knew she’d be— Yeah.

It all sounds— well. Not necessarily _reasonable_, but like it could make sense. Like Billy could be just pulling away from him because of family stuff— it hurts. A bit. Like, he feels like the blond should be able to turn to him for help if he needs it— but then. Billy is _Billy_.

He hopes Billy is ok.

Though maybe it’s not just worrying that Billy is grossed out by him that’s making him feel— the way he’s feeling.

See, his dad rang this Tuesday.

Yeah.

Not that he found out until he got home from Robin’s— via a visit to Heather in the hospital. It’s good, _great_ even— Heather, that is. She’s showing signs of waking up which is amazing really. He’d been starting to think maybe she wasn’t going to— And maybe that wasn’t just him. He thinks maybe he’s the only one visiting her. Tommy’s parents are apparently back off wherever they go on their summer vacations and he’s never seen Tommy around, so—? Sometimes he feels so _bad_ for her.

So it had been a good day up until that point. A really— well, maybe not entirely _good_, because of. Well. Yeah— _But_ he’d almost forgotten entirely all about Billy and everything, between the good news about Heather and the great time he’d had at Robin’s—

She can play _so many_ different instruments. It’s— It’s— _wow_. How did he not notice for all those years that she’s so _amazing?_ And smart. And _talented_— and, ok, she’s not _perfect _on all of them, but she _can_ play them, some of them amazingly well, while he can’t even play _one_. Clever and smart and interested in so many things he’s never even thought about. Books. Movies—

He is so glad she’s still his friend.

He hopes it lasts.

Anyway, yeah, once he’d finally gotten home it was only to discover a message from his dad on the machine.

The man’s sending him some money to pay the “housekeeper” (Mrs. Pierson), and “handy man” (Richie Lewis), to get everything “in order”, since he and his mom might be coming back after visiting some friends in the Hamptons for a few weeks— as well as sending him a few thousand _extra _he can spend on “whatever you want Steven. Buy yourself something _nice_. Buy something nice for a girl. You got a girl—? Probably not. Never your strong point, was it kiddo? Who cares. If you don’t have one now you can buy one with the money I’m sending. Those Hawkins girls are _easy_, even for a _retard_ like you—”

It’s like—

He should be grateful. Apparently his dad has forgotten he was supposed to be _paying his own way_, in fact his allowance might start up again from the way his dad put things, but instead of gratitude he feels— _Empty_. Like all his efforts were meaningless. All those _months_— His dad has always had this way of reducing him to _nothing_.

At least he met _Robin_. It was all worth it to meet Robin—

But between worrying about Billy— both that the guy _noticed_ and now wants nothing to do with him _and_ that Billy and the guy’s dad will have the “massive fight” and Billy will get _hurt_— and feeling like crap because of his own dad he’s been— _oh_, and _Robin_ has been weird. She’s been oddly— _gentle_? with him, and it’s making him nervous. Like she’s working to telling him she doesn’t want to be his friend anymore— yeah— and, of course, there’s the weird way everyone— like, everyone from school and everything, not their _parents_— are now being _nice_ to him again when a couple of weeks ago they wouldn’t have pissed on him if he was on fire and it’s— _good_ on one hand. But kind of— it makes him feel a bit— because they _weren’t_, and it was— hell— it was_ so long_— and now— Well.

With everything he’s not been at his best.

Still, _big smile Stevie_.

The— is it even an upside? It’s a _something_ side— maybe it’s just a _thing_— of the kids coming around that Thursday, when Max mentioned Billy, was what happened when he ended up driving Will and El back to the Byers’ house. It got late while Dustin and Erica were arguing about the merits of Star Wars, _again_— by now he’s pretty sure she’s teasing him, but why she’d want to when it makes the boy _so annoying_ is beyond him— and the two couples went off to canoodle in various parts of the house “Pants _on_ guys, I will be checking. No one is getting pregnant in this house and making me explain it to their parents” and Will lurked around in the kitchen watching him clean up after the mess he made cooking— poor kid. He seems so _miserable_ recently. Anyway, when he dropped the two kids home he got to talk to Mrs Byers for a bit so he’s now volunteered himself to help the combined Byers-Hoppers move house today.

Honestly Mrs Byers is one of his favourite people, but there’s no real excuse for him to hang around her all the time so he doesn’t see her that often. Just, mainly, when he’s dropping off kids. She’s— Sometimes he wishes his mom was more like her— and wow, that is not something he ever wants his mom hearing about.

His mom is glamourous and competent and ruthless and completely on the ball— and Mrs Byers is— _Mrs Byers_— but he has never gotten the impression she is disappointed in her kids or ever wants them to be anything other than what they are. You can pretty much _feel_ the love she has for Jonathan and Will— and El— and it’s—

Yeah.

Anyway, he’d dropped the kids off— waiting in the car to make sure they got inside safely— and she came scurrying out to talk to him. Mainly to ask him to thank his mom for putting in such a generous offer on her house— which, _what?_ Ok, not that unbelievable. She’s got plenty of money of her own and she does love a bit of property development— and it’s not like she even knows he knows the Byers as well as he does, so there’s really no reason for her to have gone out of her way to ring up and tell him, _but_— _what_?— and then babbled a bit about life being too short, and realising that now, and how the government must have made sure the insurance paid out on Hopper’s cabin, and how the old Christofferson place has just been put up for sale— Maude Christofferson having apparently died in the nursing home, and “it’s a real pity no one said anything about how sick she was, because she was always such a lovely lady and I would have liked a chance to say goodbye,” and everyone knows her son Paul has no intention of ever moving back to Hawkins— and even though it needs work, it’s such a nice house and such a good design with all the kids, and such a short settlement, on _both _properties, so— Yeah. The Byers and Hoppers are permanently moving into the old Christofferson house together and apparently Mrs Byers and Hopper are actually properly, officially, a _thing_ instead of just whatever it was they were before.

So, it’s Saturday morning and he has cookies, a carrot cake, sandwiches, and coffee ready in case anyone gets hungry, his car otherwise empty to transport stuff, sensible clothes on, and is ready to help— like it’s some bake sale or charity drive or whatever else his mom might have roped him into back when he saw her more than once or twice a year—

Oh Goddamn is this going to be awkward if Nancy is also ready to help.

Things between them have just— Wow. They might as well be strangers these days. The last time he spoke to her was— _yeah_— and the time before that— He thinks maybe he asked how she was in the parking lot of the mall _that night_ but he can’t really remember.

Maybe if he sticks with the kids—

Does that make him a creep? That he’d prefer spending time with a bunch of obnoxious fourteen-year-olds than his ex-girlfriend? At least he has friends that are kind of his own age now— or _he has Robin_, even if she is almost two years younger than him. And doing something with her parents today. And maybe getting tired of him— Yeah. Anyway. Billy is— He doesn’t know what Billy is to him right now.

One day someone will invent a pill that completely stops you having feelings, and on that day he thinks he will be first in line.

Still. For now. _Big smile Stevie_.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For mentions of child abuse, also homophobia.
> 
> So, we're still with Steve for this chapter, and, unfortunately, still without Billy, but hopefully you find it interesting anyway. Thank you all so much for reading, and for the comments and the kudos and putting up with the rather irregular posting schedule. You're all awesome!

Mrs Byers greets him when he pulls up, and he immediately goes to help her carry the box she’s holding— and almost dropping when she tries to awkwardly wave at him and carry it at the same time— to the truck Hopper hired. ‘It’s good to see you Steve,’ she says to him. ‘I don’t think I’ve said how thankful we are that you’ve been looking out for the kids the way you have, but we are—’ a little pause, her eyes on his face, and then she adds, ‘You know you can come around whenever you want? I know things are kind of awkward with Nancy— and _Jonathan_—’ a little shrug, ‘—but still. _You can come around whenever you want_. I know your mom— and your dad— haven’t been in town much recently.’

He thinks he manages to brush off the offer gracefully— Not because he doesn’t want to. Actually he kind of _really wants to_. But because— Well. It’d be _weird_. And _needy_. And— He’s _fine_. He is.

She tells him he can help the kids out when he asks what she wants him to do, so he heads towards the house, greeting Hopper on the way— the man carrying a box that he deposits in the truck before catching Mrs Byers in his arms and pulling her in for a thorough kiss that he feels uncomfortable watching— He leaves them behind, her giggling and swatting at the Chief, the two of them the picture of a happy couple.

Inside he manages a kind of awkward greeting with Nancy and Jonathan— both working to pack up the kitchen— and he wonders for a moment if Jonathan should be moving stuff, since he was so recently shot in the arm. But it’s not his business really, is it?— before Mike commandeers him to carry boxes of El’s things— already packed up from salvaging them from Hopper’s cabin— out to the truck.

It’s good. Easy. Something to do that means he doesn’t have to _think_— It also means he doesn’t have to go back out to the Byers horrible shed— or spend too much time inside the house. He thinks it was just— _that night_, and the _Demogorgon_, and— Wow. So many bad things have happened here— but every time he’s been inside the place has felt _off_. Like something’s _looking_ at him from out of the corner of his eye. Not cool.

It’s good they’re moving. He doesn’t like the thought of Mrs Byers and Will and El— and even _Jonathan_— sleeping in this place.

‘Billy’s being a weirdo,’ Max tells him when they’re both taking boxes out at the same time.

‘What do you mean?’ he asks, and then, ‘Is everything ok? His dad hasn’t—?’

She shakes her head. ‘_Neil’s_ being a weirdo too— did I tell you Billy made him back down that night after he went to the party at the Daileys?’ and then before he can answer with _no,_ and also _please tell me more_, ‘I think whatever’s— I dunno— _brewing_**— **between them is going to be seriously **_bad_**. I hope Neil doesn’t hurt Billy too much— I _hate him_, you know?’

‘I know,’ he replies, helping her stack the box in the truck, then pulling her aside, out of earshot of anyone else for a moment. ‘I hate him too— and I haven’t even met him. I think—’ he doesn’t like the thought of Billy’s dad trying to hurt him, wonders if he should tell Hopper, wonders if Billy would forgive him if he did, but most of all— ‘Billy is pretty strong. I don’t think his dad will have an easy time of hurting him—’ Billy might just turn into a monster if he tries.

She nods, but says, ‘I know— but sometimes he just _freezes up_ when Neil goes for him— I hate it. Oh my God Steve I hate it _so much_. I wish my mom had never— I mean, _why?_ One look at him, _Neil_, and I knew he was bad news, I _told her I didn’t like him_, but she just acted like I was being _difficult_ because he wasn’t my dad. It wasn’t that he wasn’t my dad. Ugh,’ she groans in annoyance.

Oh God, poor girl. Between Billy at his worst and his dad— it must be so hard living in that house sometimes. ‘If something happens,’ he tells her, hunching down a little to meet her eyes, ‘_Anything_. Neil hurts Billy, Neil hurts _you_, your mom— _anything_— you can ring Hopper ok? He will be _right there_— and ring me too, if you want. I will do _everything_ I can to help you out. Help you _both_ out.’

‘Fuck,’ she breathes, and he sees her rub quickly at her eyes, before suddenly she’s hugging him— just for a second. Arms wrapped _tight_ around him before she lets him go to almost lose his balance— wow that girl is _strong_— ‘Thanks Steve.’

They stand there awkwardly for a moment longer before he brings himself to ask. ‘How is he? Billy? I haven’t heard from him all week—’ _Almost two weeks now_.

She groans again. ‘I told you he’s being a weirdo, right?’ he nods. ‘Yeah. Well _he’s being a weirdo_. He keeps, like, _stopping and staring at nothing_. And he’s jumpy. And _cranky as all hell_. And— I dunno. He’s been out drinking a few times with “Adam”— whoever that is— and I think Brad Dailey? But I don’t know. How many Brads are there in this town?— and you and I both know he doesn’t get on with other guys— _weird_.’

‘Adam from the pool?’ he asks.

She shrugs. ‘I guess. He just says “Adam” like I’m supposed to know who that is.’

Brad Dailey is the only Brad remotely their age— though there’s older Brads and a couple of younger Brads— and the addition of Adam— meaning Adam Laramie who works with Billy at the pool— would make sense. Brad and Adam have been friends almost as long as he was friends with Tommy H. and Carol— Why Billy’s hanging out with the two of them he has no idea— but they’re both honestly _good_ guys, so he’s not too worried they’re up to something.

No, instead he feels—

_Jealous_.

And kind of even crappier.

And then Mike appears to glare at him and tell them both off for slacking, hands on hips, head jutting forward— looking entirely too much like one of the too-skinny women his mom used to do charity things with. Max rolls her eyes at the boy, gives him a sympathetic look, but still lets the kid shoo them both back inside.

He hears Mike asking Max what they were talking about, why she was _hugging_ him— and then smirks a little at the loud and annoyed volley of _Oh My God, none of your business, stop being so **nosy-**_s it earns him.

The next couple of hours seem to pass in a daze of wandering back and forth between house and truck, sometimes stopping for a while to help pack or tape up a box, chatting idly with the kids— all present except Erica— who apparently felt helping _Byers_ move house was beneath her— or at least so according to _Lucas_, so not exactly a— hmm—_objective_ is the right one, isn’t it? Not subjective. Lucas is a _subjective_ observer, not an _objective_ one— biased or whatever.

The truck Hopper hired isn’t that big— so they’re planning on it taking a couple of loads. Mainly boxes and the furniture from the living room in the first load, mainly furniture in the second— boxes that don’t get packed in the first load being transported in the wide collection of cars parked around the street— Nancy’s mom’s, Jonathan’s, Mrs Byers’, Hopper’s, his _own_.

By the time the truck is almost full for the first time he’s ended up in Will’s room, somehow being roped into packing up the kid’s clothes— which feels _weird_, but— watching out of the corner of his eye the way the boy keeps hesitating over books, comics, his D&D stuff— the poor kid looks even more miserable that usual, and that’s saying something.

They can both hear Lucas and Max laughing at Dustin as the three come in with a box from the shed, the sound of Jonathan and Nancy talking quietly in Jonathan’s room, the sound of Mrs Byers laughing at something Hopper just said— It seems like it should be— that there should be a sense of connection between everyone. But somehow it’s like it’s just the two of them, cut off from everyone else. Maybe even cut off from each other—

And then Mike and El are barrelling into the room, Mike chattering away a mile a minute, walking over to Will— but not looking at him— reaching past him to the pile of books he’s lingering over, making full-body contact with the other boy for a moment, pinning him in against the shelf, before grabbing whatever book it was, waving it at El, and the two scurrying from the room.

He sees the look on Will’s face. The blush. The way the poor kid then hunches over— and he has a burst of sympathy, the memory of many an unwanted boner when Tommy used to deliberately pull shit like that on him— because he and Carol thought it was— _funny?_ Who knows— and Will’s body language screams that he’s trying to hide what’s happening, before realising he can’t, realising _he’s_ seen everything— because he was too distracted by it all to look away, to give the poor kid some dignity— and then _humiliation_.

Then _fear_.

Big eyes on his face.

Will knows he saw, understood what just happened— and then he remembers why it’s not just the same as if it was El or Max or some other girl— It was Mike. They both know it was Mike— and even if he forgot for a moment, they both live in a world where it’s not safe to be getting unwanted boners from being pressed against things by your **_male_** best friend.

_Shit_. He has to say something—

‘I don’t think there’s much room in the truck, but we might be able to fit a couple of your boxes if you’re ready to—’ Mrs Byers enters the room already talking.

Will’s eyes immediately snap to his mother as she sighs and looks around, commenting on how he’s barely got anything packed. Somehow Mrs Byers is looking even more frazzled than usual— but at the same time she seems _happy_.

‘Most of his clothes are ready,’ he says, as if that will shield Will from even the mild parental disapproval that’s making him hunch even further into himself. Fuck. He needs to _fix _this. He needs to get Will alone to talk— to make it clear that it’s _ok_— well. That he has terrible taste in boys, if the Mike thing was more than— you know— just any boy rubbing up against him like that— Then again, he has been reliably informed by Robin that _he_ has terrible taste in boys too— but other than _that_ it’s all ok.

So he offers to hang back, help Will pack, then load it all into the beemer and drive them both to the Christofferson place— for a moment he wonders if the boy will protest, will want to get away from him and hide like he’d probably want to if the roles were reversed, but if anything Will seems _resigned_.

‘This is very nice of you Steve,’ Mrs Byers says as he walks her out to the truck.

‘It’s fine. Happy to help,’ he says with a shrug. He’s got no plans to be interrupted. It’s funny, he feels weirdly nervous— though he shouldn’t be. It’s fine. He just needs to make sure Will is ok and then neither of them have to talk about this stuff again unless they want to—

As everyone is climbing into the various vehicles they’re taking it occurs to him to rush over to the beemer and collect the food and coffee—leaving aside a few cookies for Will— handing it all over to Mrs Byers so they can take a break if they want while they’re unloading. Her gratitude is so— It makes him feel good. As does the way she rambles on about how good the last lot of cookies he gave them were—

Then Hopper starts trying to get her to hurry up, and she gets distracted arguing— in the happiest way he’s ever seen anyone argue— with the man, and the argument— if you can call it that— continues as she climbs into the truck next to him and everyone drives off.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: for homophobia and internalised homophobia, also emotional child abuse. Please let me know if I've missed any. 
> 
> Part 1 of Steve-Will bonding time. I thought I'd post this bit now, as it pretty much works as a chapter even though there'll be more with Steve and Will in the next one, because I'll be busy for the rest of the week and maybe next one? Not sure yet, and I wanted to get this out while I could. Thank you all, as always, for being so wonderful! I hope you enjoy, even if it's a bit depressing.

He watches them until they’re out of sight, apprehension building. Shit. He’ll probably have to _tell_ Will— Not about the Billy thing, but about the—

No details though. Just—

And no mentioning _Tommy_. Yeah, in part because Tommy would _hate_ people knowing, but also he gets the impression Will is not the kind of person impressed by a jackass like Tommy H. any more than Robin is.

Hah.

He really is a _jackass_.

—

Thinking about it too long still makes him—

Yeah. No point upsetting himself before what could turn into an upsetting conversation.

He creeps back into the house, kind of wondering if Will’s still going to be there. It’s— He feels like the _bad guy_. Wow this stuff _sucks_.

But Will is where he left him, looking the picture of misery. As he comes into the room the boy looks up and for a moment he sees _defiance_ before the kid speaks, ‘I was going to try and convince you that you didn’t see anything, that you’re wrong about whatever you think you saw, but _what’s the point_? I get it, ok? I’m gross. I’m _disgusting._ I’m a freak. I’m— it’s not like I want to kiss _you_ or anything, so you don’t need to worry, you don’t need to beat me up or— or— I just— I _can’t help it_! I don’t _want _to be like this, I _never wanted_— I _know_. Ok. I—' and now Will’s crying.

It makes him feel _terrible_. Like this is all his fault— ‘No—’ he begins, trying to explain, but the boy just keeps talking, babbling ugly, half coherent self-hate, and the more he tries to reason with him the louder and more upset Will becomes.

It triggers that urge to comfort that seems to end up with him hugging guys even though it’s not really a _guy_ thing to do— Tommy, Billy— though with _Will_ it’s different— and honestly— Actually, he almost doesn’t believe Billy even _let him_— and— he reaches for Will, but the kid makes a wounded, scared little noise and flinches back— and now he feels even _worse_.

‘Will, come on man,’ he tries. ‘I’m not going to— _fuck_. I would _never hurt you_, not for _that_, not for _anything_. It’s ok. I promise it’s ok—’

‘It’s _not_!’ the kid wails. ‘I’m a fucking _faggot_.’

It’s ugly, isn’t it, that word— He doesn’t let himself think about it much but honestly, underneath it all, he _hates_ it whenever it slips out of his dad’s mouth, Billy’s mouth— though most of the time the guy doesn’t seem to mean it— maybe not that time he snarled it at _Dustin_— shit. Yeah. He can _never_ let Billy find out— but most of the time— Hearing it from Will. Cruelly self-directed—

‘I am too!’ he yelps, and then, ‘Kind of. _Half_. I mean—’ wow, he can feel himself going red right now. It’s a strange and awkward thing to admit. And even though Will just called himself a— _that word_— he almost expects the boy to be grossed out, to react the way Will expected _him_ to react. ‘I’m _bisexual_,’ he eventually manages. ‘I like _both_. So, um—’

The kid stops, tears running down his face, eyes _massive, _‘What?!’

‘I’m bisexual?’ he repeats, but the anxiety of the situation makes it come out like a question. ‘Fuck! Kid, look, I like both girls _and_ guys—’

A pause, and then, ‘Does _Nancy know_?’ eyes even _bigger_, as if that was possible.

‘No!’ he yelps. ‘No, she— _please don’t tell her_.’ What if she thinks even _worse_ of him— Oh God.

The next thought that crosses the kid’s mind is apparently, ‘Is Billy your _boyfriend_?!’

‘Oh God please don’t tell _him_ either, he’ll kill me!’ is about all he manages in face of that.

Will blinks. A tear— obviously not fresh, but from before— wow he is feeling _bad _about all of this— squeezes out between his lashes and joins the others on his cheeks. ‘Since _when_? No way. No way is _Steve Harrington_ bisexual— if you’re just saying that to make me _feel better_—'

‘Why would I do that?’ he blurts out. And _why_ does everyone say his name like that when they discover he’s bisexual— Well. Robin and Will, but— why is it so unbelievable that “Steve Harrington” is—

Whatever it is he is. All the things he is.

Will opens his mouth like he’s got an answer, but then hesitates, doubt creeping over his face. The kid blinks. Mouth shuts. Then opens again, ‘Wait— so does _Dustin_ know?’

‘_What?_’ he squeaks. ‘No. _No way_. **_Please do not tell him either_**— Oh my God kid, don’t tell _anyone_. The only ones who know are you and me and Robin.’

‘Robin?’ the boy’s eyebrows climb up his face. ‘Your _girlfriend _knows?’ The way it’s said pretty much screams “if your girlfriend knows you’re bisexual why is she still your girlfriend?” Which is bad enough, but—

‘Robin is _not_ my girlfriend,’ he sighs out. Can’t a guy and a girl be friends without everyone being so _weird_ about it?

‘Because you’re bisexual?’ Will straight out asks.

‘No!’ he yelps, scrubbing both hands roughly through his hair. ‘It’s not— Will, kid, it’s _nothing_ like that. Ok? Robin doesn’t think being bisexual— or _gay_— is dirty or gross or whatever it is you’re thinking— it’s just—’ he can’t exactly tell the kid Robin’s a lesbian without her saying he can, so— ‘You can be friends with people without wanting more than that, can’t you?’ he thinks for a moment, _Mike_ isn’t the best example, but maybe— ‘You don’t want to kiss Dustin, do you?— unless you do. In which case that’s _fine_. It’s—’ oh God this is bad. Especially since he’s been feeling gross and wrong and guilty for his own— for _Billy_— _but_. This is not about him. This is about _Will_. He doesn’t want the kid to feel bad. To feel— So instead of how he feels about things, the things he tells himself, he needs to focus on how he wishes things were, the things he’d secretly like someone to tell _him_.

‘There’s _nothing_ wrong with being attracted to other guys—’ he tries. ‘It’s just how you— how _we_— are. We’re not dirty, or insane, or diseased, or _hurting_ anyone— I mean, _seriously kid_, who would you ever try to hurt? You’re like. You’re the _nicest_— Even _Billy_ likes you, and he pretty much hates anything with a dick—’

And then Will bursts into tears again and he starts panicking again, apologizing, but then Will is lurching at him and sort of awkwardly hugging him/collapsing against him, so he wraps his arms around the boy and they list over into a pile on the floor.

After a moment he realises it’s a different sort of crying. Less the horrible, scared, self-condemnatory tears of before, more— _sad_. Will seems sad. It makes him feel like he’s about to start crying too, but he tries to bite it back. It’s not—

All this isn’t about him. It’s about _Will_.

He does his best to comfort the kid.

And he learns a few more things. Like how the other guys know what Will is— even if they never talk about it really. About how they’re good about it— except Will’s scared they’re only good about it, only don’t reject him, because of what happened. The Upside Down. Because what happened makes him something even more _other_— something they have to be careful of. That Will’s also scared that Mike _knows_— not just that Will likes boys, that Will likes _Mike_— and only puts up with him out of guilt or something— and there he learns what the dark haired boy said, about it not being his fault that Will doesn’t want to kiss girls— and it makes him wince. Imagine what that must have felt like— And that sometimes Will thinks he hates Mike as much as he wants to kiss him— that being around the other boy _hurts_, and Mike just doesn’t make it any easier. And Will is trying so _hard_ to be ok— not just about being gay, but about _everything_. Trying so hard to just keep going, to make believe everything is the way it always was, but it’s _not_ and the poor kid is getting sick of it. Sick of pretending. Sick of who he is. Sick of trying so hard to keep everyone together when they just seem to want to couple off and split up and—

_Leave him alone._

And the way Will isn’t even sure he wants to be who he is anymore. A _loser_— the kid’s own words, not how he would have put it— interested in comics and nerdy bullshit and drawing and—

‘I don’t even know if I want any of it anymore, so how can I pack it?!’ the kid sighs, gesturing around the room. ‘I mean, you have to grow up sometime, _right?_ Leave all _this_ behind—'

Oh God is he out of his depth.

‘You’re still a _kid_,’ he points out. ‘You don’t have to decide that kind of stuff _now_.’

‘I’m not that much of a kid,’ Will says, ‘I’m only, like, _four_ _years_ younger than you—'

‘_Five_,’ he corrects automatically, but Will isn’t listening.

‘—You must have been an awkward kid at some point, you must have, you know, decided to _grow up_, you can’t have just been _Steve Harrington_ forever.’

‘Why do people say my name like that?’ he muses, before shaking it off. ‘It’s not so simple, you know? I never had to decide to “grow out” of what I was into as a kid or anything, because when my mom decided I was too old for something she’d get rid of it—’ like the way she’d stripped down and redone his room to her image of “teenage boy” a few months before he asked Nancy out. He feels his face scrunch up into an unhappy grimace and tries to smooth it back into something calm and grown up and _comforting_, ‘— and there are some things she got rid of that I wish she hadn’t, even if they were _childish_.’ Like the teddy bear his grandad had given him when he was born— and, ok, most of the time he’d kept it in the cupboard, but that was more because if his dad ever saw it he’d make some _comment_ and less because he didn’t value the thing.

Will is staring at him. ‘That is messed up,’ the kid breathes out, making him flinch.

‘Yeah, well—’ he shrugs, looking away.

Will nudges him gently with his shoulder, and when he looks over at the kid, the boy’s got a funny look on his face that doesn’t quite match the words, ‘So what do you think I should do?’

He glances around the room, at the stuff still unpacked, then back at Will. ‘You should probably pack it— but that doesn’t mean you have to _un_pack it. You can always leave it all in the boxes, see how you feel without it?’ That’s sensible, right? He hopes so. He hopes he’s _helping_. ‘There’s nothing wrong with wanting to explore who you are, you don’t have to stay the same— but there’s also nothing wrong with who you are right now,’ wow this is getting sentimental, but, ‘You really are a good guy Will— and you’re not a _loser_. Take it from me, I was— well, you know what I was. I was _Steve Harrington_—’ great, now he’s doing it himself, ‘—and it wasn’t that great, and most of the other _Steve Harringtons _in this town are— a lot of them are really shitty people— or, if not _shitty_, then— _shallow_. It’s not worth it to be them. I’ve liked myself a lot better since I became whoever it is that’s not _Steve Harrington_.’

‘You’re still Steve Harrington,’ Will says, shoulder bumping him again, ‘You’re just not _Steve Harrington_.’

‘I have no idea what that means,’ he says, except he kind of does.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: for mentions of the AIDS crisis, as well as ignorance about how the disease is spread, homophobia and fear of homophobic reprisal, and domestic violence- please tell me if I missed any.
> 
> Time for yet another Steve chapter and more Steve-Will bonding. Sorry I took so long replying to comments, I don't actually have an excuse this time, but I will do better next time. Thank you all so much for reading, and for the comments and the kudos!

Together they get to work, Will no longer hesitating over everything. For a little while they work in silence, but then the boy starts chattering in the way Robin does, in the way _he’d_ do if he wasn’t so afraid the name _Billy_ would slip out, about guys (or girls in Robin’s case) he thinks are cute, and then about what it would be like to kiss a guy, whether it’s any different to kissing a girl—

‘It is and it isn’t,’ is his answer to that one. ‘There’s stubble, you know, and some girls wear lip gloss or lipstick— and that can taste _weird_— but otherwise some people are just better kissers than others, I think—’

‘Wait— _you’ve actually kissed a boy?!’_ Will blurts out, almost dropping the comics he’s holding as he clumsily whirls around to face him, ‘Who did you kiss?!’

‘Uh—’ he manages, ‘I don’t think he’d like me telling people—’ and yeah, he told _Robin_. But she’s his _best friend_, and kind of— _confidant?_— and Will is just a kid and might accidentally _tell someone_, and— Maybe it’s just that it feels weird and kind of embarrassing to tell some kid that he kind of hopes might look up to him— just a little, he’s not kidding himself there— that he spent, like, _way too many years_ kissing Tommy H.

Will seems to consider this for a moment. ‘But it wasn’t Billy?’

‘No!’ he yelps. ‘Why would you think—? He would _not_ want— Oh God.’

A shrug, ‘He is hanging around a lot these days, but maybe that’s just because of whatever’s going on with him and Max. You know, _sibling stuff_— Was it Jonathan?’

He blinks. ‘_Jonathan_?’ incredulous, ‘I’m pretty much sure that even back when he was beating my face in_ Billy _liked me more than _he_ does—’ and then he remembers that Will is Jonathan’s brother— ‘Um. Jonathan’s a good guy though—?’

Will frowns. ‘Jonathan likes you—’

He almost laughs but bites it back, instead giving an awkward little shrug. ‘Yeah, I guess—’

‘No, he _does_,’ Will insists, but then gets distracted by what he obviously really, really wants to know. ‘So it wasn’t Billy, and not _Jonathan_, so—’ the kid gets a funny look on his face, ‘No way. It wasn’t _Tommy H_.— was it?’

He feels himself flinch before he can stop himself. Fuck does he wish everyone could just forget the guy even _exists_. Every time he hears that name, or even some mention of him— It hurts. He hates that it still hurts. But then it’s only been— _not very long_, really, since that last, _stupid_, time when—

‘Holy shit it was!’ Will crows. ‘You kissed _Tommy H._— wait— _doesn’t he have a girlfriend_?’

‘Carol,’ slips out.

‘So he’s pretending—’ Will muses, before ‘—or is he bisexual like you?’

He shrugs a little helplessly. He actually has no idea. He doesn’t even know if _Tommy_ himself knows what he is.

‘Did Carol find out, is that why you’re all not friends anymore?’

Wouldn’t that make so much more sense than the truth— What should he say? Should he say _anything_? Thinking about it is making a hot misery rise up in his chest— He shakes his head. ‘No she—’ fuck. All of a sudden he feels _defeated_. ‘She knew. She— It’s complicated kid. So complicated. And not just—’ not him and Tommy and Carol, but— ‘—_Life_. Life is complicated. Friends and lovers and— _complicated._'

Will stares at him for a moment with large eyes, suddenly serious and sad again, and now he feels guilty— _again_. ‘So what happened? If Carol knows and that’s not—?’

He thinks back to what Will was saying earlier. ‘I think, as far as Tommy’s concerned— I think he _grew out of me_. Like you and your comics.’

‘Wait, so it was something _serious_?’ the kid blurts out. ‘It wasn’t just— like— _once_, or something?’

He shrugs, uncomfortable. ‘No, um, it was— _years_. Like, a few months after they got together, so we would have been about—’ he frowns. Holy hell were they _young_. ‘— maybe even younger than you, actually.’

The kid stares at him for a long moment, then, _carefully_, ‘So were you two—? _three—?_ Um— When. _You know_— You and _Nancy_—?’

He quickly shakes his head. ‘No, he—’ Should he even be sharing this with the poor kid? It feels like he’s milking it for sympathy— and everything’s become about him again when it should be about Will. Wow is this stuff hard. Quickly, hoping Will won’t dwell on it too much, he says, ‘No. He told me to get a girlfriend, and I did, then he got all pissy about Nance and— Well, you know. Anyway, so—’

Before he can turn the conversation back to the kid Will is blurting out, ‘So, wait, if you were together that long did you do more than just _kiss?_’

No way is he answering _that_ question, but apparently his expression has already given him away, because Will’s eyes get even _bigger_. ‘Oh wow, you _did_— Oh wow, with _Tommy H_—’ the kid trails off for a moment, before, ‘_Gross_. Oh that is _way worse_ than my Mike thing. He’s all— He is _horrible_ Steve. You deserve someone so much better.’

‘Yeah that is—’ he sighs, ‘that is not going to happen kid. Don’t worry about it. My bullshit is just—’ he winces, remembering Nancy’s voice, ‘_bullshit_. Let’s focus on you— There has to be, like, a _boy_ somewhere in town that also likes boys, that’s your age, not hideous, _nice_— that’s the important part kid. It doesn’t matter how amazingly hot he is, he has to treat you right— don’t put up with it if he doesn’t, just tell him to _fuck off_— or if not in Hawkins, somewhere nearby— or college, you’re going to college right? Smart as you are—’ Will is shaking his head. ‘You’re not going to college?’ Why?

‘No, not—’ the kid sighs. ‘If I can get a scholarship— I know mom started a college fund for both me and Jonathan when we were little, but she’s never had much to put away and I think our dad might have— but that’s not the point.’ The kid takes a deep breath. ‘I don’t want to get AIDS, so, um, I don’t think getting a boyfriend or whatever, or even, _you know_, with a guy, is a good idea.’

He blinks. He hasn’t actually paid that much attention to the AIDS thing— he probably should have, but the most he’s heard about it is from his dad when the man has been angry with someone about something and wishing they’d get it and die. ‘You have to catch it somehow though, right? You don’t just get it from having sex with another guy, they have to have it first. That’s right, isn’t it? So if you find a guy that _doesn’t_— not that I think you should be having sex with someone. You’re just a kid— and anyway, there has to be a test for it right? And they’ll work out how to cure it— the best scientists, like, _disease_ scientists have to be working on it. Right?’

Will shrugs. ‘I don’t actually— I know I should try to find out as much about it as I can, but it feels like if I do someone will find out and, you know, _guess_, or I’ll find out something that’ll make me—’ the kid flinches, almost whispers, ‘—_hopeful_.’

‘Oh—’ what can he say to that? He should say something. The kid sounds so sad and lost and kind of _resigned_— Such a smart kid too. Thoughtful. All that time he was tugging on Tommy’s dick he never stopped to consider if there were consequences— not that he thinks that— Well. If just touching a guy’s dick will give you AIDS he’d be long dead. So— ‘There’s nothing wrong with having hope. Or having a _boyfriend_— being alone is—’ ok, redundant, but, ‘_lonely_. So maybe we really should do some research into how to not get AIDS— for me, even if you decide you don’t want to, _you know_— because you never know when some stud—‘ he almost starts laughing, but manages to hold it together, ‘—will fall for my many charms—’ he gestures up and down his body, lingering especially at his hair.

Wow is he a loser, but the kid looks a little bit less miserable and a bit more contemplative— in a good? way. He hopes— so maybe he’s helping.

Suddenly Will is shoulder bumping him again, except it turns into a kind of awkward side-hug, the boy pressing his face against his shoulder for a moment before breathing out, ‘Yeah. Ok—’ and then, ‘Thanks.’ He smooths a hand over the kid’s hair, holding it there for a second, before they separate and go back to packing.

It doesn’t take that long before they’re carrying boxes out to his car, loading the thing up until the both of them will barely fit in it. When they’re done they stop for a moment, eat the cookies, the two of them leaning against his beemer and looking back at the Byers house.

Half muffled with a mouth full of cookie Will says, ‘Is it bad that I’m glad we’re leaving? I mean, I grew up in this house—’ the kid sighs.

He thinks of what he knows, has been told, never sure he knows the full story, about Will being trapped in the Upside Down, desperate to communicate with his mom, making the lights flash— ‘No. I can understand kid. There’s parts of my own house— I mean. One day I’m going to move out, and when I do— I don’t think I’ll want to look back either.’

Will swallows the mouthful of cookie. ‘It’s not just—’ a deep breath, ‘—the _Upside Down_ and everything that happened with it. It’s— Sometimes it’s like more unhappy things happened here than happy things. Especially before my dad left—‘ the kid frowns.

He frowns. Everyone knows Lonnie Byers was a wifebeater— and _no one did anything about it_. He can remember his mom saying things like “well what did she expect? We all knew what he was— and good looks aren’t _everything._ She’s got no one but herself to blame—” it makes shame rise in him, even though he’d never agreed— never argued though. Not that you really can argue with his mom.

After a moment Will says, ‘Bob was a really good guy, you know? But so’s Hopper—’

He nods. ‘Yeah, he is.’

‘And I’m pretty sure he _loves_ her. Has loved her for, like, _forever_. Not that he’ll admit it—’

He thinks for a moment. Nods again.

‘—and the Christofferson house is— it’s so _big_. You’ve seen it, right? And the yard— it’s overgrown now, but— I think I can remember going there at Halloween when I was really little, and the front garden was— there were all these roses and flowers and things. Really nice. And—’ Will sucks in a deep breath. Sighs. ‘—It’s the kind of house mom always should have had, you know? And I think, maybe, we might have a chance at being happy there— but I don’t know.’

‘We better get going kid, unless you want me getting all soppy and emotional and telling you how you— all of you— more than deserve to be happy if anyone does,’ he warns.

Will shoulder bumps him again.

‘You want to stop off for a milkshake?’ he offers as they climb into the car. It’s stupid, isn’t it? As if feeding the kid enough can wash away all the bad things in life.

Will glances at him then shrugs. ‘Ok. But I think we should get it to go— mom’s probably wondering where I am—’ the kid hesitates, ‘she still _worries_.’

‘I think we all do,’ he replies, and then, to smooth over the irritation he sees flashing across the kid’s face— and he gets it. He’s pretty sure Will resents the hell out of what happened making him even more _different_ than he already was— he adds, ‘Not just about you. About everyone. This town— I don’t know about you, but I never feel safe here anymore.’ He hadn’t always felt safe in the past— but that wasn’t— that wasn’t because of _monsters_. You know?

He lets Will talk him into getting a milkshake too— strawberry, yes _pink_, yes _girly_, yes pretty fucking _gay_. Sue him. He wants something _cheerful_. Anyway, plenty of guys who wouldn’t suck a cock with a gun to their head like strawberry— why is he even worried about it? It’s some kind of weird self-consciousness that must come from telling Will what he is.

When they’re back in the car the kid stops sucking on his straw for a moment to give him yet another serious, _miserable_ look. ‘Don’t you ever worry people will find out and, you know, try to _hurt_ you?’

He doesn’t know what to say to that, because in the past he _hasn’t_ worried. It was a thing between him and Tommy and Carol— not the rest of the town. Private. You know? _Behind closed doors_. And now— the Billy thing— He’s been worried about _Billy_— and, yeah, kind of about his _dad_— but that’s— that’s not really a new worry either— the thought of, like, _the rest of the town_ finding out—

‘Shit,’ he breathes out, but then shakes it off. He cannot freak out about it. If he freaks out about it Will might freak out, feel even less _safe_— ‘If anyone _ever_ gives you any kind of shit about it come to me and I will beat them up,’ he promises.

‘Yeah, but you’re not very good at—’ the kid trails off—

‘I beat up that Russian,’ he points out, trying to defend himself.

Will is giving him a funny look, but still says, ‘Yes. Yes you did. Dustin told us—’

‘What?’ he asks, the funny look continuing and starting to unnerve him. If anything the kid is looking worried about _him_.

‘Nothing,’ Will says, shaking his head. Dismissive. ‘Come on, let’s get going so I can find somewhere in my new room to put all the boxes I’m not unpacking, before someone asks me _why_.’

‘Just tell them you’re tired and you’ll do it later,’ he suggests, starting the car.

‘Yeah, but they’ll all try to _help_—’ the kid sighs. ‘Even if I was just _tired—’_ another sigh, ‘I can, actually, do stuff for myself— _you know?_’

‘Yeah, I get it,’ he says, giving the boy an encouraging smile. ‘They act like that because they care about you, but it must drive you nuts sometimes.’

‘It _does_,’ Will says, nodding. ‘Mom and Jonathan are bad enough— but _Mike and Lucas_— one minute it’s like they’ve forgotten I exist because of El and Max, the next it’s like I’m a helpless little baby and I need them to wipe my ass for me—’

He winces, feeling sorry for the kid. Having a crush on Mike and the dark-haired boy alternately ignoring or patronising him must be— ‘If you ever need to get away from them you can always come around to my place—’ he offers, ‘Even when I get another job. I’ll get a key made for you— Though we should ask your mom first. We don’t need to give her a _reason_ to worry—’ another thought crosses his mind, ‘—and you should probably stay away from the pool, yeah?’

A moment’s pause. He glances at Will, wondering if he’s somehow offended him or something, but the kid is giving him an entirely different look to before. A good kind of look. ‘Thanks Steve,’ is all he says though.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For internalised homophobia and the general content of this story so far, please let me know if I've missed any.
> 
> Wow has it been chaotic this week. Most of this chapter was finished days ago but I just haven't had time to complete it- not that it feels complete as is, but I'm posting it anyway out of a response to unscheduled chaos and the hope I'll get more time to write soon. Honestly I've only got a couple minutes now to post it now as is, so this is probably rushed and half coherent at best. Thank you all for reading, for the comments and kudos etc. Hope you're all safe and well all things considered. Take care of yourselves you wonderful people!

When they get to the Christofferson place— he supposes he should think of it as the _Byers_ place— or maybe _Hopper-Byers_ or _Byers-Hopper_ or— Well. It’ll sort itself out eventually— and get out of the car Mrs Byers comes over immediately to fuss at Will and smile at _him_ and thank him for the food and tell him how delicious it all was.

He smiles back and thanks her as the other kids come crowding around Will to the sound of squawked complaints about why he’s got a milkshake and they don’t. To which the kid replies, smugly, _because I’m Steve’s favourite now._ This leads to yet more squawking— maybe he shouldn’t think of Dustin as _squawking_. It’s pretty mean, the way Billy says it— but the kid kind of does, and now he can’t forget that fact. Except all the other kids squawk too— he thinks maybe all kids squawk. Did he squawk when he was that age?

He ends up being “volunteered” to supervise the kids unpacking the boxes as Mrs Byers, Hopper, Nancy, and Jonathan head back to the old Byers house to refill the truck. It goes exactly how he’d expect, him standing around, hands on hips, telling them not to do things that they then proceed to do, which leads to them barely avoiding breaking things that they then want him to swear not to tell Mrs Byers or Hopper about.

By the time the last truck-load arrives— a third trip being needed, even though the original plan had been only for two— everyone is tired and the kids have started arguing with each other about everything, so everyone ends up sitting on the dining room floor— “_look at it, an actual formal **dining room”**_— Mrs Byers had exclaimed, “_what am I going to do with it? And they left this lovely old sideboard too_— _I never understood Paul Christofferson.”_ eating pizza and drinking soda out of a collection of mismatching glasses, coffee mugs and the cups that go with his thermos.

Since Dustin tells him that the kid told his mother that he’ll be dropping him off home— which, _ok_— they head out after everyone’s finished eating— the kids all too pissy to want to spend any more time with each other than they have to. He says goodbye to Mrs Byers and Hopper and El and Max— and Will, even though the kid pretty much dogs his heels all the way out to the car— and he’s just unlocked the thing when—

It’s like his whole body sits up and takes notice like a dog that’s just spotted its master. It takes him a moment to realise that it’s the sound of the car— the Camaro— getting closer— and then he sees it and thinks _Billy_ and thinks _fuck I’m an idiot_ and _he’s come to get Max_ and—

The car slows, suddenly, pulling up outside the house like it’s being driven by someone else. But it’s not. It’s—

Oh wow. He almost forgot how attractive the guy is.

He thinks their eyes meet, just for a moment, that shocking _blue_— but then he’s looking away, climbing into the car, flapping at Dustin to hurry up. He thinks he hears Will say, “Oh,” but he’s not sure and then Dustin is in the car and the doors are shut and when he looks up again Billy is strutting towards the door to the house, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, that kind of awkward-aggressive look about him that he gets when he’s dealing with men— _Hopper_. Of course— and he wants to get back out of the car and go and—

But then Dustin’s hurrying him up in between demands of “_when did Will become your favourite? I thought **I **was your favourite.”_

He starts the car, glances at the boy sitting in the passenger seat, and then, airily, to be annoying, ‘I don’t have a favourite. I love all my children equally.’

He manages to hold it together through dropping Dustin off, through agreeing to pick the kid up and take him back to the new Hopper-Byers house tomorrow afternoon to see if anyone needs any more help, through being fussed at by Dustin’s mom— who thinks he’s such _a nice young man_ and keeps trying to set him up with the daughters/nieces of her friends— some of which he’s already hooked up with at various parties or dated for a while, and some of which he wouldn’t touch if you were pointing a gun at him— he knows the drama that follows Staci Matherson around thanks, and he knows that Staci Matherson usually has no one to blame but herself for it— through the drive home and parking the beemer and going inside, but then—

—

At least Dustin didn’t mention Billy. The whole _is Billy a zombie?_ thing seems to have deflated in the face of the guy not doing anything weirder than wearing too many clothes. Even the convoluted and stupid plans— like whatever that was with his pool originally, whining to Max about it so she’d invite Billy over so Dustin and Erica could see if any of him was turning green or dropping off when he took his shirt— that he _never_ takes off anymore— off— seem to be stopping. The kids must be getting bored. Thank God.

He does not need them around him when he’s around a half-naked Billy— things could get _embarrassing_.

—

Hah!

_Embarassing_—

For a moment he sinks into himself, hands going up to cover his face. He feels hot, _too hot_, embarrassed and ashamed and worse than that kind of turned on— _just from a glimpse of the guy_. Like all these days without him have finally brought his body into a state where—

Since Nancy his libido has kind of, embarrassingly—

He can still get hard, obviously. Has still jerked off every now and then— but he’s been—

Most of the time he’s felt—

It’s hard to describe it without using words like _unhappy_ and _tired_ and _not interested_ and _kind of_ _miserable_ and _about as sexual as a mouldy kitchen sponge_. It’s also kind of embarrassing that everything that went down with her— and, honestly, _Tommy and Carol_— has made him feel kind of—

Like. It’s the kind of things _girls_ are supposed to worry about, isn’t it? If they’re _desirable_.

He hasn’t felt very desirable.

Apparently he needs to feel desirable, at least a _little_, to feel much in the way of this kind of out-of-nowhere _desire_. Most of the time anyway.

He doesn’t feel any more desirable right now than he did a couple of weeks ago, but still his body is _burning_.

Hungry.

He _wants_— and holy hell does he not want to _want_. Not Billy. Not like this—

He’s sure the guy will be able to see it on him. Will be _disgusted_—

—

If they ever even talk again. Which they might not— because Billy hadn’t even waved or anything. Billy seems to be _avoiding him_, and it almost doesn’t matter, because no matter what _Billy_ thinks about the matter all of a sudden his mind is dwelling on Billy’s lovely, perfect, _pretty_ dick again. The way it felt underneath his thigh.

How it would feel in his mouth.

He shudders, his own dick twitching, throbbing, _filling_. He’s in the entrance hall and he’s got a hardon and—

Wow is he ashamed of himself right now.

He creeps upstairs, kind of thinking of having a shower, washing the day’s sweat off himself. He probably stinks.

—

Yeah.

Have a shower because he _stinks_, that’s all—

God he’s gross and weird and kind of _toxic_. He doesn’t think he’s ever lusted after someone who’d so utterly _not welcome_ it before.

He tries to ignore his body. The way it _wants_. The way _he_ wants. Tries not to think about Billy. Tries not to—

_Tries_.

Wouldn’t it be nice, though, if things between them were like they used to be between him and Tommy and Carol? Billy could just reach out for him, grab at him, pull him close, _kiss _him, grind up against him— maybe even encourage him down to his _knees_.

—

Fuck.

_No_.

And then for a moment he’s caught be how unfair it seems, that he never felt like he could reach out and _touch_ Tommy, not _like that_— not kiss him, tug his dick, rub off against him, _anything _remotely sexual— that he always had to wait until the dark haired guy made the first move. It used to sit between them, heavy, making him _afraid._ Afraid of what would happen if he just took what _he_ wanted.

Fuck his life.

Maybe with Billy he’d be allowed to—

Ha.

_That’s hilarious Stevie_. Touch Billy like that and he’d get his face broken again.

What he needs is to jerk off— while _not_ thinking about Billy.

Or Nancy.

Though right now Nancy is the less appealing prospect—

Wow is he a— is it _masochist?_ Sadists are the ones that hurt people, right? Instead he seems to like getting hurt— or maybe just catching feelings for the type of people who’ll hurt him, one way or another. Whether they mean to or not.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: for Billy's internalised homophobic freakout, possible suicidal ideation and talk of suicide, mentions of Neil.
> 
> Itty bitty chapter again. I got started with Steve's miserable jerkoff session but got a bit blocked, so instead we have part one of Billy losing his shit. I don't know. I wanted to get something posted at least. Stay safe out there, ok? You're all wonderful and thank you so much for reading and commenting etc.!

His head is just— _hollow_.

Echoing.

Static.

_Panic_.

—

_Fuck_.

—

How he doesn’t just crawl out of his fucking skin, crawl out of Harrington’s fucking car, completely lose his fucking _shit_ on the way to the garage he has no fucking clue, but—

He doesn’t really remember the journey. Or, you know, saying goodbye to Steve, or the brunet driving off, or paying the old man who runs the garage, or _anything_ up to the point where he’s standing in front of his baby, keys in hand, and Mr Duvall or whateverthe fuck his name is suddenly says, ‘I know something’s wrong young man, I can see it in your face— my boy used to get a look like that sometimes—’

And he blinks. And for a split second he wonders how he got here, wonders where Ste— _No_. And then the old man is talking again and he really should try to pay attention. He looks sad, he thinks, Mr Duvall. ‘So maybe I should do for you what I failed to do for him—’ the guy takes a deep breath, ‘—That is to say— if you need to talk it through with someone then I’m willing to listen— and I won’t judge you, no matter what it is—’

He feels his eyes blink, disconnected from his sense of self. ‘I don’t think I can,’ slips out, honest. Honest like he does not want to fucking be right now.

The old man nods, taking out a crinkled pack of Camels and depositing one between chapped lips before offering the pack to him. Numb he takes one, lights it with his Zippo. ‘If that changes you can come back, you hear? Doesn’t matter if the car’s working fine—’

He nods, not really meaning it, not meaning anything. _Everything_ is meaningless. He can taste the smoke in his mouth, it tastes _toxic_.

As he climbs in his baby it suddenly occurs to him to ask, not even sure why he does. ‘Where is your son?’

Mr Duvall shrugs, blowing out smoke between yellowed teeth and saying, ‘He got that look on his face one day and drove off— then he didn’t come back,’ the old man’s rheumy eyes go unfocussed. ‘Jim Hopper had to come and tell me when they found him— Poor man. So soon after— Anyway, he wrecked the car too. All that time we spent on it together—’ the eyes finally focus on him again. ‘Now. Don’t you go doing something silly, even if it seems like it’s the only thing you can be doing right now. That sister of yours looks at you like you hung the moon— and it wouldn’t be kind to poor Steve Harrington— He seems like a good friend to you and that boy’s got enough trouble in his life.’

‘Yeah,’ he breathes out with the smoke. ‘He’s a good guy—’

_Sweet and fucking **gorgeous** and—_

Static.

—

And the next thing he knows he’s back home, the time between leaving the garage and arriving sucked into some void. He’s panting. He’s in his room. He’s—

He thinks maybe there’s tears trailing down his face but he’s not sure. Might be sweat. Probably is sweat, because all around him is wreckage, all his _stuff_ flung everywhere, clothes, skin mags, _weights_—

_Oh fuck_. The plaster’s— What the fuck has he _done_? How the fuck has he—?

There’s a fucking _hole_ in the wall.

Not all the way through, just through the drywall, but—

It’s big. Big and _jagged, _less like a punch and more like something’s fucking _clawed it— _His right hand is covered in plaster dust to the wrist, particles of the stuff under his fucking _nails_—

Shaking he sinks to the floor, staring at what he’s done.

‘Jesus,’ he breathes out. ‘Jesus fucking _Christ_—’

—

After a while he staggers to his feet, staggers out of his room— _His car, he has to check on his_— He glances out the window. It looks fine. Parked really fucking _badly_. But—

_Oh fuck_.

Oh—

_Fuck_.

—

It’s all _fucked_.

—

It takes most of the rest of the afternoon to clean up, to _fix_ what he can— The hole in the wall staring him in the face the whole time. _What the fuck can he do about it_?

Fucking Neil is not going to be fucking _pleased_.

—

_Hide it._

That’s all he can do.

_Hide it_. Fix it when the old bastard and Susan go off on this year’s vacation.

Yes. Yes. That’s all he can do. That’s all—

He ends up plastering every poster he has over it, wincing at the way you can almost tell there’s something wrong behind them, the way they hang just a little— _off_. Then wincing when his eyes actually focus on their content. That’s a lot of titties concentrated to one part of the room.

Jesus.

What will Steve thin— k—

_Fuck_. He almost punches his way through all his hard work, but somehow stops himself. Ok. _Ok. **O-fucking-K**_—

Shower, yeah? Shower and then. Then—

He passes his dresser, rearranging the bottles of cologne anxiously, trying to make it all like today never happened, fingers catching on the corner of the bottle of Aramis, where it’s now _chipped_ from being flung across the room. Fucking lucky neither broke. Would have made the room _stink_.

Would have been hard to hide.

He runs the water as cold as he can get it. Scrubs himself as _rough_ as he can.

He gets out of the shower to a message from Max saying she wants to spend another night at the Hopper-Byers, so he rings back, makes sure everything’s fine with everyone and then—

Then—

Fuck. Any second now he’s going to start _screaming_. He’s going to—

You know, the idea of taking the car out, _not coming back_, seems almost _tempting_.

Not necessarily _not coming back_ the way Mr Duvall meant it, but he could pack all his shit into it now he’s got his baby back, hit the road, go back to Cali— He’s still got some savings. Max is safe. Disaster fucking _averted_—

—

But is she safe?

Is the fucking _gate_ or whatever it is really gone?

Is the Mind Flayer?

Then there's fucking _Neil—_

_Fuck his life_.

Fuck his fucking life.

Fuck it _all_.

—

Once he’s got his hair done he climbs into his car anyway, not heading out of town but to the liquor store usually manned by that blond jock that used to hang around Tommy H. The guy acts like he walks on fucking water, so no way is he ever carded.

He buys four six packs and a couple bottles of cheap bourbon, drives out into the forest, drives out to where he drove out to that night, after he got loose from that fucking monster, and then, well—

—

_Static_.

—


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For Billy's continued internalised homophobic freak out, discussions of suicide, a bit of body horror, let me know if I missed any.
> 
> May you live in interesting times, huh? I hope, so much, you're all safe and well and the impact of the current situation isn't hitting you too hard- I don't know what else to say about it. Take care of yourselves, ok? 
> 
> Anyway, we're still with Billy this time- Steve's sad wank hasn't managed to come together yet- I hope you enjoy. Thank you all for reading!

A light little weight on his chest and the feel of something pecking at him is the first thing he’s aware of, opening his eyes to see a bird— fuck knows what kind of bird— he is _not_ a fucking bird expert— it’s _brownish_, as if that helps— on him, hopping around, exploring him like he’s got bugs for it to eat in all his clothes.

_What?_

He blinks, turns his attention from his torso to— _the sky?_ What? The sky and trees and a fucking little bird that flaps off in a panic as he sits up. _Shit_.

Shit.

At least he’s not naked— he looks down to check. Yeah. Still fully clothed. Just fully clothed in the middle of the fucking _forest_—

_Where is his car?_

**Fuck his fucking **car**, where is _he_**?

He gets up, waiting for the hangover to hit— then almost staggering when it _doesn’t_, when he continues to just feel fucking _fine_. Great. As healthy hale and whole as he’s ever felt. _Jesus_.

The first thing he does is have an amazingly long piss against a tree. The second thing is take a few confused, disorientated steps and almost trip his way into Steve’s back yard, freezing in place, staring at the blue water of the pool in the early morning light.

Ok. _Ok_. He is not going to think about this right now.

Turning his ass around he heads back into the forest, soon picking up an absolute mess of a trail that he thinks must have been him— though it looks less like it was made by a _him_ shaped him, and more like it was made by a _bull_— Or a fucking _spider monster_—

_Not thinking about that either_.

After about half an hour— maybe forty minutes— walk he finds his baby, sitting where he left it, driver’s door open and a staggering number of empty cans spilling out of it. _Well shit_.

He can just imagine showing up back home with all this, _Neil’s_ fucking reaction. It’s probably undo his victory, leave the old bastard feeling like the winner, because there’s getting a bit sloshed on a regular basis like his fucking dad does, and then there’s going out and drinking enough to legitimately _kill a person_, like it seems he’s done.

Hah. _Person_.

Wow, ok, he is _not crying_.

He thinks maybe two of those six packs and at least one of the bottles of bourbon were meant for _later,_ when the urge struck again— like he knows it’s going to— not that he’d really been thinking at the time— but—

He lifts one, then the second, empty bourbon bottle out of the footwell—

Oh, he must _stink_ of it.

_Fuck_.

It’s not, well, something to be _proud of_, but he finds a soft spot in the dirt under the leaf litter and digs a shallow hole, burying the evidence of his night where he hopes he’ll never have to see it again. See. There. _Gone_.

It’s like it never even happened in the first place.

His dad won’t find out.

—

More importantly _Max_ won’t find out and be disappointed in him.

He drives back into town carefully, expecting to still be drunk— even though as far as he can tell he’s as sober as a fresh, young judge not disillusioned with their profession yet.

Fucking Neil and Susan are already off at work when he gets home, thank fuck, giving him peace to drink terrible coffee and kind of—

_Sulk_.

Yeah, ok. He needs to— to—

_Anything_. He needs to do anything—

_Anything but think_.

He kind of wishes the pool had rung so he could go into work, but since it _hasn’t_—

—

He goes for a run, a long run, because he’s been lazy recently, and last night sure as hell wasn’t a _healthy_ thing to be doing, and by now he should be getting out of shape— except he’s _not_. He’s running far too fucking _fast_. Legs eating up the ground, doing his ten miles in less than two thirds the time.

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_—

Ok. Ok. Not thinking about _that_ either.

The worst thing is he’s not even _kind of_ tired at the end of it.

_Still not thinking about that_.

So, since he’s got nothing else to do, and since he’s now started up his life-before-all-this-stupid-shit exercise routine he might as well continue it, he spends the next while at his weights, cringing a little inside as he has to add more, and then more again, lifting way more than should be possible even if he hadn’t slacked off since the Upside Down decided to intrude into his life.

At the end of it—

At the end of it—

_Is this even his body anymore?_

Fuck.

At the end of it he’s absolutely fucking _ravenous_, but that makes sense, doesn’t it, the last time he ate was—

_Steve sitting across from him at the diner, hair brushing his shoulders, **smiling**_ _at him— pretty smile too_.

Fuck.

Ok. Ok. _O—_

He scrubs himself raw in the shower, washing away sweat and the lingering stink of booze that has to be on him, not even touching the _hot_ tap. Not touching anything else he shouldn’t be either. Still not _thinking_. And then—

Yeah, he shouldn’t, but he doesn’t have it in him right now to cook something, eat something, all alone in this house he _hates_. So he goes back to the diner. Goes back and sits in the same booth as last time—

Steak, lots of it, and more coffee, and—

It’s not the same. Not without Max. Or St—

Yeah. But the coffee’s good and the meat comes out thick, juicy and still a bit bloody in the middle— even if it’s a cheap cut, a bit tough— Doesn’t matter, his teeth make short work of it—

The hard thing is the silence. The lack of company. The lack of _diversions_— Leaves him in danger of thinking too much. Noticing things he does not want to notice.

That does not mean he wants the _Chief of fucking Police_ sitting his massive Goddamn ass down opposite him just after he’s put in an order for a fourth steak. ‘_What?_’ he snaps, and then tries to temper it with a ‘Sir.’

The guy smirks at him, ‘Can’t a man sit down to lunch with his kid’s best friend’s older brother?’

He almost says _No_ but stops himself. Shrugging. Watching the man warily as Chief Hopper orders a burger, fries and a massive coffee.

His own steak arrives at the table at the same time as the man’s burger, and he watches the Chief flirt— _but not really, more like a game than anything serious_— with the waitress— a woman at least twenty years the man’s senior, who smiles and slaps the cop gently on the shoulder, like this is an old joke between them— as she puts the food down and carries off his old, empty plates. When she’s gone he finds himself asking, ‘Did you want something?’

The Chief’s eyes focus on him— ‘I met Tomas Duvall last night at the Big Buy.’

‘Yeah, _and_—?’ he demands, feeling himself get even _tenser_. Which should not be possible. Maybe he was right about that old man first time they met.

The cop’s face scrunches up, awkward for a moment— a fucking _long_ moment— and then, ‘Look— _Ah fuck, how am I supposed to do this_?—’ and then, before he can suggest that maybe the guy just _not_ do whatever _this _is— ‘Is everything alright?— Yeah, I know, you’re a _man_. I’m a man. We’re all— _men_,’ the cop sighs. ‘And yeah, _feelings_— I get it. I do. I get it— but then I’ve got Joyce in my ear about— _you know_—’ no he does not _know_— ‘So I guess the sky isn’t going to fall if I— _yeah_,’ and then, after that rambling bunch of bullshit, ‘Are you ok?’

‘Why are you asking?’ he grits out. He’s fucking _fine_. And even if he _wasn’t_, in no universe does— and that thought could end so many ways. In no universe does some _pig_ care if he’s ok. In no universe does a man ask another man, _in public_, if he’s ok. In no universe does he want to talk about this. In no universe—

Another pause and then the man says, ‘Tomas said you looked like a man about to do something _stupid_.’ —He snorts out a breath. Great. Just— _great_. Fucking old man telling tales on him— ‘He was worried,’ the cop adds, eyes _knowing_. ‘He wasn’t trying to start something— He said he told you a bit about his son?’

He nods, finally picking up knife and fork and carving a lump of flesh off his steak, feeling the muscle fibres give way between his teeth when he shoves it in his mouth. He chews. Angry. _Frustrated_— Where’s St— Where’s _someone_ when he needs him, someone to smooth this all over and get him out of this conversation—

The Chief follows his lead, taking a big bite out of his burger before speaking again. ‘Yeah, well Jared Duvall was always doing something _stupid_, so if anyone can recognise it in a man it’s Tomas—’

‘He kill himself?’ he interrupts to ask. That’s what it sounded like.

The cop thinks for a moment. ‘Tomas thinks so. Some of the town thinks it was just an accident—’

‘What do _you_ think?’ he asks, pointing at the Chief with a piece of bloody meat.

‘I don’t know he set out intending for it to happen—’ Chief Hopper says after a moment’s thought, ‘But I don’t think it was all that unwelcome when it did. He was— _unhappy_—’ and the way that’s said is _loaded_, but he doesn’t know enough to decipher what’s hidden in the word, ‘— No. Not just _unhappy_, but _trapped_ by it— and I get it. I do. I’ve had nights—’ the man breaks off, blowing out a breath and going to rub his hands over his face, before frowning at them when he realises they’re covered in ketchup. That gaze transfers back to his face, a kind of wary, _constipated_ look on the man’s face. ‘Look. What I’m trying to say is— _yeah_. Life sucks sometimes. But if anything happens to you then it’ll make Max unhappy, which’ll make _El_ unhappy— which’ll make _me_ unhappy, which’ll then make Joyce unhappy, which’ll make Jonathan and Will unhappy, Jonathan being unhappy will make Nancy unhappy, and Will— if the rest of the kids weren’t already unhappy because Max and El were unhappy then _Will_ being unhappy would do it for them. So, yeah— Oh, and _Steve _would be unhappy too, of course— don’t know why, but that kid has decided you’re one of his closest friends now— and Steve being unhappy would mean that _Robin_ girl was also unhappy and— What I’m trying to say is don’t do anything _stupid_, because it’ll upset pretty much everyone that even kind of matters to me, and— _Oh my God I am bad at this. _I don’t know what to say— you _get_ what I’m saying, right? You’re _important_ to people. Part of our, I don’t know, _community_ now— Fuck. Just pretend I said the right thing, ok?’

_Steve would be—_

‘I’m not going to do anything stupid,’ he snaps, ignoring the whole— four six packs of beer and two bottles of bourbon thing. That’s only _stupid_ if you’re not—

_A monster_.

— and he is. _Whatever he is_. So, in his case, _not_ stupid.

‘Good—’ the man clears his throat, then sighs. ‘Good talk— I guess— God. Honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing, kid—'

‘I’m _not a—_’ he’s hissed before the man interrupts him, looking like he wants to be here, giving this talk about as much as _he_ want to be on the receiving end of it.

‘_Yeah_, I know. Look at you. The picture of _grew up too soon_— but it slipped out, ok? Wasn’t meant as a— a— _aspersion _on your masculinity.’

He can’t keep the glare off his face, or the expression that’s probably _screaming_ how little he trusts the man. Fuck. He needs to pull himself together—

_In more ways than one_.

‘Let’s just agree to pretend this didn’t happen,’ the man says after a long moment’s deep contemplation of his wilting fries. ‘I mean, not— You _still _agree not to do anything stupid, but we both forget my fumbling attempts to, you know, _talk to you_ about it.’

‘Whatever,’ he snaps, spearing the last bit of his steak— admittedly a pretty _large_ chunk of steak, usually two mouthfuls, but he wants to get the fuck out of here and it does fit in his mouth—

The cop looks a bit grossed out, before shrugging and finishing off the burger with bites almost as big as his, so it’s not like the man has room to complain. ‘Well, _nice_ as this was—’ he gets to his feet, fishing some money out of his pocket and tossing it on the table. Time to get the fuck out of here.

The cop’s eyes go from the money to his face, before the man scoops it up and holds it back out to him with a shrug, ‘My treat.’

‘You got no idea how much steak I just ate,’ he points out, refusing to take the cash. ‘Whatever this is, I don’t think it extends to paying _that much_— also, I don’t need your _pity_—’ and then it’s like he remembers who he’s talking to, just how _miserable_ this man could make his life here in Hawkins, so he hastily pastes on another, ‘_Sir_.’

‘It’s not _pity_,’ Chief Hopper says, rolling his eyes. ‘Just take the money— you can use it to pay for lunch next time you’re out with the kids and they decide they each need enough waffles to feed the entire basketball team.’

It almost makes him smile. _Greedy little shits_— ‘Ok, fine,’ he snatches the cash back, and at least part of why he does it is that he doesn’t know what’s more dangerous. Doing what this man wants or continuing to disobey.

On his way back home he tries not to think about what the hell the cop was thinking, trying to talk to him about— _What did Chief Hopper think, Mr Duvall think_? Was he really coming off as a guy who was in danger of—

Yeah. _Not thinking about it_.

Not thinking about _anything_.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For Billy's continued freakout, for oblique references to fear of homophobic reprisals and blackmail. Tell me if I missed any.
> 
> I have no idea what to say. The world is- this is just unprecedented in my lifetime. I have no idea how I got this done. Way too much of my time seems to be spent glued to the news. Anyway, here is a chapter, for better or worse. Sorry, also for the laggier than the usual lag in responses to your comments. It's just- Well. This is our world right now. I'll try to do better next time. Stay safe everyone! <3

—

There’s gotta be a party on tonight, right? What he needs is to go out, find a girl, do the full fuck— Because he still can. Ok? Ok. He still— Girls are so fucking hot, yeah? So fucking—

Max is weird when he rings round the Byers place and asks if she wants to spend another night there if it’s ok with Mrs Byers and Chief Hopper— no way does he want her home without him, not if there’s even the slightest chance Neil might be _Neil_ about things after, you know, he _won_— She seems worried about him, all _OhmyGodBilly, are you ok? Neil didn’t— did he?_ And when he asks _why_, she’s all _You sound **weird**, like, **really** weird_.

He tells her he’s tired, _not sleeping_, which gets him a noise of understanding, then tells her he wants to go out, have a bit of fun, but doesn’t want her _alone_. All true enough.

He maybe loses a bit of the afternoon, after she tells him it’s ok with Mrs Byers, and then adds, ‘_Be **careful**, ok Billy? Don’t do anything— just be **careful**_.’ before she hangs up. _Why does everyone think he’s gonna—_

He’s alone then. Alone with nothing to do but watch shitty TV he can’t stand, or get drunk, or—

—

Susan coming home snaps him out of whatever it was, blinking himself back into awareness to realise he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. He gets up, gets ready to go out on autopilot, shoving condoms in his back pocket, cringing at the scent of Aramis on his skin once he’s applied it— reminds him of—

_—teve’s fancy ass French cologne blending with his own, the smell of cigarettes, brown hair down, brushing a long neck—_

‘See ya, Susan,’ is about all he manages on his way out the door, ignoring her calling after him, asking where he’s going— though calling back that Max’s staying at the Chief of Police’s when she follows him out to the car to ask. Then he’s off, fishing a pack of Marlboros out of the glovebox— glaring into it when he realises there’s only one left.

Time to go see Candy— Hah. _Does 7-11 stock Gauloises_? He misses the rougher edge to the smoke, the way it reminds him of—

Just. Yeah. The rougher edge to the smoke.

Maybe they’ll have some unfiltered Camels—

She glances up from whatever book she’s reading when he waltzes in, rolling her eyes when she sees it’s him. ‘Hey Candy cane!’ he calls out, coming over to drape himself over the counter. Grey eyes flick to his face and then away, _dismissive_. ‘They stock Gauloises in this fine establishment?’

A little wrinkle forms between her brows. ‘I thought you were a Marlboro man?’

‘Yeah, well—’ he shrugs.

She sighs, annoyed, and puts the book down to check behind her— ‘You after one packet or—?’

‘I am after as many packets as you’ve got,’ he replies, gaze going to the book. It looks very— he flips it over, reads a couple of lines— eyebrows climbing at the amazingly fucking _graphic_ description of some chic’s naked body— things heaving and dripping and more than ready for a bit of action. ‘You reading porn at work, Candy cane?’

She whirls around, flinging two cartons of Gauloises down onto the counter before snatching the book out of his hands and to her chest, almost hiding it from sight, her eyes wide, staring at him in alarm.

He stares back.

They’re still staring as some yuppie prick comes in to pay for some gas and get himself a cup of shitty coffee and a burrito that looks like it’s been out all day— Guy wants food poisoning then it’s none of his business.

Candy serves the man, moving all jerky, like she’s suddenly been replaced by a robot— turning her attention back to him the moment the yuppie leaves. She looks— Actually, she looks _pissed_, and more than a little like she’s waiting for him to do something horrible to her.

_‘What_?’ he asks. ‘You wanna read porn then read porn. _What do I care?_ I’m not the kinda guy that thinks there’s something wrong with a girl for having a sex drive.’

‘How much did you read?’ she demands, her fingers tightening on the book’s cover.

‘Not much,’ he shrugs, ‘Just something about some girl’s tits and then a description of what her pussy looks like— Why? What I read seemed dirty enough— you gonna tell me it gets _filthier?_’ The girl cringes, drawing herself up, trying to seem composed. It’s like she’s got something to hide— ‘It’s not kiddie porn or animals or something, is it?’

‘It’s not fucking _kiddie porn_!’ she snaps, lurching like she’s going to throw the book at him, before carefully hiding it behind her back. ‘There’s your Goddamn cigarettes, so pay and _leave_.’

‘Real convincing,’ he says with a laugh, before fishing out the cash and handing it over. ‘Here.’

She snatches it from him, counting out his change faster than he has ever seen anyone count cash, and handing it over while doing her best not to touch him— and yeah, it’s all been kind of funny. You know, she’s usually so composed, so in charge— and the whole interaction has taken his mind off— _things he’s not thinking about_— but he does feel kind of bad. Whatever smut she’s reading she’s obviously sensitive about it, so, gentler than before, ‘Look, I really don’t care what you get off to— and I’m not going to _tell _anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about. So chill, ok?’

She stares at him for a moment more, before blowing out a deep breath. ‘Whatever. Just— _don’t_. Ok? Whatever you think you’ve got on me— I _don’t care_. So—’

‘You think I’m gonna— _what?_ Try and blackmail you because you were reading something to get your panties wet instead of working?’ he scoffs, and then realises she’s _serious_. ‘This fucking town is _insane_. Jesus.’ He snatches up the cartons from the counter, ‘I’ll get out of your hair, ok? You don’t need to worry about me coming back and making you freak out for no fucking reason.’

A pause, and then, ‘You really won’t—’ she trails off, rubbing a hand roughly over her face and smudging her eyeliner. ‘I don’t know if I’m scared you’re going to tell someone or that you’ll think you can make me— _I don’t know_. I don’t know why I’m— You really didn’t read any more than that? You’re really not going to make trouble for me because of it?’

‘The girl in that book got state secrets up her pussy or something?’ he asks, utterly confused. ‘Russian codes? The fucking _Gate_?’

‘What?’ she frowns, face scrunching up cutely. ‘What _gate_?’ She really is hot— but she’s also not— Whatever it is she’s not. _His type_? He wouldn’t have said he had a type before, but maybe he does. Anyway, hot or not, he doesn’t do it for her and that’s just as important as whether she does it for him— he’s never really been one of those guys who likes a chase. Too much effort. Better if she wants it as much as he does. _Easy_. Fun. Chase a girl who isn’t interested at first and she might end up thinking it’s all more than it is—

_Fuck, he needs to get laid_.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he waves off her question. ‘I swear— I fucking _pinkie swear_—’ he extends his right hand towards her, the finger in question sticking up, ‘—that I am not going to do whatever it is you think I’m going to do just because I caught you reading porn. Ok?’

She studies his face for a moment, before hooking her own pinkie around his and the two of them shaking on it. ‘Ok. I am _trusting _you—’

‘Trust away,’ he says, taking his hand back. ‘I am very fucking _trustworthy_.’ God, this whole encounter has been so fucking _weird_— He turns to go, ‘See ya, Candy cane,’ and as he does it’s like reality sinks in— The reality _he is not thinking about_—

Shit.

He turns back, ‘You know of any parties on tonight?’

She blinks at him. ‘I think Brad’s having another one— I know Tommy H is, but I think I’d go to Brad’s if I had to go to either.’

He snorts out a laugh, sounding almost as crazy as the black-haired guy did the night he tried to beat his face in. ‘Somehow I don’t think I’d be welcome at that freckly fuck’s house even if the sight of him didn’t make we want to commit homicide—’ he hesitates, ‘By Brad you mean _Dailey_? Big fucker, face like a potato?’

She laughs before she can stop herself. ‘I should tell him you said that—’

‘You friends or dating or something?’ he asks, curious. He’s pretty sure he’s never seen her at, like, _any_ party he’s been at.

Her face scrunches up in mild disgust. ‘Ew. No. He’s my cousin’s best friend. I’ve known him since _forever_.’

It’s something—_better_— leaving things like that. Like he doesn’t have to feel guilty about something he can’t even _begin_ to understand. Seriously. _Fucking weird_ interaction.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For Billy's continued internalised homophobic freakout, mentions of Neil, mentions of guys doing non consensual things to girls, panic attacks, possibly more please let me know if I missed any.
> 
> **Also there's some pretty graphic hetero sex here guys, just letting you know.**
> 
> I could have kept going, but decided to break the chapter here in case you want to want to skip over the hetero sex. I hope so much that everyone is well and safe and- yeah. Thank you all, as always, for reading! Take care out there!

Back in his car, back on the road, Gauloise between his lips, heading to Brad Dailey’s for hopefully a better night than he had the last time he was there— everything starts creeping in on him. His foot seems to get heavier. The hand on the speedometer winding upward, upwards, _upwards_—

There’s already cars on the street, but he finds a place and pulls in with a squeal of rubber on tarmac. He stalks into the party like he owns the place, body flowing along to the heavy synthy beat of some song he’s never heard before. He’s all easy smiles, eyes on the girls, looking for one that _looks_ back—

He’s no more here to dance and drink that he was last time, only unlike last time he has no intention of leaving _unsatisfied_. A brunette, he compromises with himself, not thinking about _why_. Leggy, Big eyes. Nice hair— _small tits_, maybe. _Tall_ would also be good.

_A girl_.

Yeah. He wants a _girl_.

In between his entrance and finding the girl he drinks a bit— maybe a bit too much if he was— but he’s not. So, even if he should be a bit wobbly on his feet by the time he spots _her_ all he actually is is a little more _relaxed_.

She smirks as he comes over, tilting her head up and shifting to show off her long limbs and gentle curves with the kind of confidence that Chelsea always seems to be trying to imitate.

Pretty girl, _hot_, but more than hot— that is the look of a girl who knows what she _wants_. Also, he thinks maybe they had some classes together.

_Amy_, it turns out her name is. She’s a good dancer too. _Sinuous_ or something, her hips swaying side to side in a way that’s—

_Thank fuck, his dick’s actually getting **hard**_.

He grunts as she reaches down there, between them, cupping him in her palm and giving a gentle squeeze, _purring _at the resultant little helpless thrusts of his hips. ‘You a good _fuck_, Billy boy?’ she coos into his ear. ‘You worth taking for a ride?’

It should be— _weird_ or something. Kind of awkward. But the way she says it, the way she’s _touching_ him— Yeah. He’s pretty sure she knows her way around a dick—

His _favourite_ kind of girl.

‘Why don’t you find out,’ he purrs back, groping at her ass, pulling her short shorts upwards until the seam has to be grinding against her pussy.

She smirks at him— almost eye to eye, probably only an inch shorter than he is— and grabs him by the front of his silk shirt, leading him through the dancers, the drinkers, the young and dumb and drunk, and back upstairs. Back to the same room as last time.

She’s a better— _everything_—than the awkwardness of Chelsea. Pushing him back against the bedroom door and devouring his mouth— a good kisser, he thinks from somewhere far away— She’s all legs and small tits like he wanted, the curve of her waist shallow, her figure _gamine_.

There’s no little girl’s tomboy fantasy in the way she kisses though, or the way she grabs at him, leaves his shirt alone when he insists but _strips_ off his jeans, _handles _him, shoving him back towards the bed. ‘I’m on top,’ she says. Climbing onto the bed to straddle him.

Um— ‘No,’ he replies, shifting out of the way before she can settle into his lap.

‘Why?’ she pouts, _mocking_, ‘You one of those guys that can only feel like a _big bad man_ when he’s holding a woman down?’

‘Fuck _no_,’ he snaps. ‘It’s—’ How to explain that he _loves_ being ridden, but only when he knows the girl, knows the surroundings, and knows they’re not about to be burst in on by some pissed dad/brother/uncle/cousin/_boyfriend_ and he’s not going to have to try and fight the bastard off while trying to get her off his lap and also try and prevent her taking any of the hits. ‘I don’t know you well enough.’

‘You don’t _know me_—’ she laughs, a little husky, and he’s just thinking _fuck this_, when she shrugs and says, ‘Well I’m not doing doggy style. I don’t like it up the ass and too many guys seem to think I won’t notice if I’m face down when they go _oops, wrong hole_.’

‘I’m not trying to fuck you up the ass,’ he snaps. Jesus, Brad Dailey’s house is fucking _cursed_ when he wants to get his dick wet. ‘What about missionary?’ he suggests after a moment’s thought.

Her face wrinkles up as she considers it. ‘I guess— but you’re going to have to eat me out first. It’s harder for me to come if I’m not on top.’

‘Fine with me,’ he says, grabbing for her, hands on narrow hips as he helps her lie down with her legs spread. Unlike Chelsea she turned on the light when they entered the room—and thank fuck she let him keep his shirt when he stopped her taking it off him, even if it did make her laugh at him— meaning he can see her. See her properly— For a moment he’s afraid he’ll be turned off, _disgusted_ by her pussy— that he’s been lying to himself all these years— but he’s not. His dick throbs as he looks at her, ducking down eagerly to bury his face in it.

Fuck is she _bossy_. The moment he gets to work she’s got her hands in his hair, guiding his mouth, grinding her hips up to meet him. It’s— Yeah. Brad Dailey’s house is fucking _cursed_.

It’s not— He doesn’t like being grabbed. _Trapped_. And he could think about why that is, but he doesn’t want to be thinking about his dad’s unpredictability and growing up never feeling _safe_ when he’s trying to eat out a girl.

He needs to do this. He _needs_ to do this— so he does his best to breathe deep through his nose and relax into it, and, once the first kind of panic’s faded, it’s not that bad. Not as bad as _Chelsea_ anyway— maybe because for all her tugging on him she’s also cooing out a constant ramble of praise— especially once he’s got a couple fingers involved— and a man likes to feel his hard work is being appreciated.

When she comes it’s with a full body contraction, bear-trapping around his head, clinging to him with hands and arms and legs as she twitches and spasms. When it’s over and he’s pulled back she smirks up at him, looking hazy and _satisfied_, ‘You’re good at that. Almost makes up for it if you turn out to be a terrible fuck—’

He snorts out a laugh, feeling odd and dark and kind of _bitter_. ‘I’ve never had any complaints—’

‘Well get over here so I can judge for myself,’ she purrs, eyes on his dick.

She keeps her eyes on him as he grabs his jeans, fetches a rubber, and rolls it down his dick— _why does this all feel so **wrong?**_ It’s not that she’s not hot. It’s not that he doesn’t _want _her. Doesn’t want to _fuck_ her— but—

He climbs onto the bed, moves in between her legs— that come up immediately and curl around him. He lines himself up, glancing briefly into her _too green_ eyes, then pushes in. It’s physical then. Nothing more than the feel of her, the way she’s tight and wet, the way she cries out, the smell of her perfume and sweat in his nose.

Grinding, grinding, grinding— and it’s _mindless_. Or at least he _wishes _it was mindless. But there’s part of him that can’t help but think she feels _wrong_ in his arms. The smooth skin of her throat, the soft swell of her tits, the narrowness of her shoulders, the pitch of her moans—

He gets a hand under her hips, lifts and tilts, until his thrusts her getting her _just right_. Her body _shaking shaking **shaking**_. The she’s scrabbling a hand down between them, rubbing at that spot above the hole of her pussy, and he’s saying something like, ‘_let me_,’ but she’s snapping ‘_don’t you fucking **dare** stop what you’re doing,_’ and she bear-traps up around him again, almost whining as she comes a second time, his lap suddenly _wet_ and the way she tightens up around him drags him over the edge too—

At the end, as he falls, an image flashes across his mind. _Steve under him, hair down, mouth open, panting, surging up against him, the scent of their colognes mixing_—

With his face still pressed to her throat he reaches down mechanically and closes his hand over the top of the condom, preventing anything from spilling as he pulls out, strips it off and flings it somewhere off the bed for someone else to deal with. It’s funny— it’s—

His breath keeps catching in his throat.

He feels _too hot_.

He—

He can’t breathe—

_He_—

_Is he dying?_

Things get a bit confusing after that. He can feel her pushing at him so he does his shaky best to climb off her— but that’s about as much as he can manage, lying on the bed like a landed fish, thinking _fuck, this is not how I thought I’d die_—

She says something, but he can’t drag his mind together enough to understand more than her swearing and something about her dad and then the words, ‘I’m going to go get Brad.’

_Fuck his life, he wants to fuck **Steve**_.

Oh God. Oh fucking God.

Is he a _faggot_ or what?


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: for internalised homophobia, mentions of Neil, mentions of drink driving, mentions of suicide, please let me know if I missed any.
> 
> Wow, I'm actually being productive recently, I got this done, it's a little longer than some of my recent chapters, and I wrote an entire stupid Star Wars fic. Anyway, here you go, another Billy chapter- I think next time we might switch back to Steve, if I can just manage to finish the one where he jerks off sadly. I hope you all are well and safe(don't worry about me. Unless things change things are going surprisingly well here), and thank you, so much, for reading my ramblings and letting me know if you like them!

By the time the door swings open again he’s managed to get himself seated resting against the head of the bed. He’s still breathing. He’s not _dead_. He’s— ‘—freaking out like my dad does, but it’s not like he’s been to Vietnam so I’ve got no idea what’s going on,’ he hears the girl— _Amy. Her name is Amy_— saying from the hall as Brad Dailey and Adam from the pool pile into the room.

From somewhere far away he registers Brad yelping, ‘_Jesus_, Hargrove dick,’ but then Adam’s sitting on the edge of the bed and he briefly considers hitting the guy but since he’s holding out a mostly full bottle of Jack Daniels that might have to wait.

He grabs the bottle, swallowing, swallowing, swallowing— ‘Wow, should you let him drink that much?’— Brad, again. He sticks his middle finger up at the guy, transferring the gesture to Adam when the dark-haired guy tries to take the bottle back. When the bottle’s empty he lets it drop to the coverlet, trying to ignore the way Brad is saying, ‘Ok, you’re going to get alcohol poisoning or something and die in my spare room. My parents are going to be _so_ pissed— _Jesus _Adam—’

‘I didn’t know he was going to drink the whole thing,’ his co-worker is bitching back.

‘I’ll be fine,’ he snaps. _Oh_, he can breathe again. He sits forward, reaching for his jeans caught on the end of the bed.

‘I’m not sure about that,’ Adam says, looking constipated or worried or something. ‘Why the hell did you drink the whole bottle? Jesus. I thought maybe a drink would help but not—’

He snorts out a laugh, darkly amused. ‘It’d take way more than _that_ to kill me.’ _Fuck_. He must have been panicking or some shit— _what is he, a pussy?_ He glances from the jeans to them, ‘Can you fucks get out of here, or do you want me to flash my dick at you?’

‘Already seen it,’ Adam says, getting up off the bed. ‘It’s nothing special— We’ll be back in a minute, because the moment you pass out I’m rolling you on your side— Dan almost choked on his own vomit at Tommy H’s one night and it was kind of— _fucked up_.’

_Who the fuck’s **Dan**? _Fuck it. He does not remotely care. ‘You’ll be waiting all night if you expect me to pass out after only drinking that much.’ At that he gets off the bed— if they’re lingering it’s not his fault if they see his dick—

He hesitates. _He’s not trying to deliberately show it to them, is he?_

Warily he glances at Adam, at Brad, waiting to feel _something_— Mainly he feels _annoyed_. Ok. _Ok_. All good—

He steps into the jeans, pulling them up over his legs, and doing up the fly while he looks around for his boots. _Ah_, over by the door—

‘Look man,’ he tells Brad as he grabs the shoes, ‘I hate to be a downer, but your parties are kind of always a shitty time, so I think I’ll get out of here—’

Brad grabs him. He swings before he thinks about it, the guy dodging back out of his reach, hands up, ‘Shit! Ok. Ok— calm down yeah! I’m not tryna— _You’re not driving_, ok? Ok. Like— I’m not the kind of pussy who thinks a guy shouldn’t get behind the wheel just because he’s had a few, but that was, like, _a whole bottle of Jack_. You are going to _blackout,_ man, and you don’t wanna blackout driving—’

He just _stares_ at the guy, this _potato_ of a jock, all worried he’s going to what? Crash his car or some shit. This is not— This is not _appropriate_ jock behaviour. Guy should be— and _Adam_ too— they should both be laughing and trying to get him to drink more, not— ‘Why the _fuck_ are you acting like someone’s _mom_?’ not necessarily _his_, as he has no idea how she’d act in this situation, but, like, a _TV_ mom.

‘_Dude_,’ Brad whines. ‘Not cool— We’re just, like, _doing the right thing_. Don’t be an ass about it.’

It makes him laugh— admittedly kind of hysterically, but _laugh_. Sitting heavily on the edge of the bed and just cackling, boots hanging limply from his grip.

‘_What_?’ Brad is demanding, looking very sulky for a guy that’s probably six and a half feet tall.

Eventually he manages, ‘This town is the most confusing fucking— I don’t even know. All that fucked up shit and everything and now _responsible_ jocks. _Jesus_. Fuck my life—’

‘Well, he’s having a nervous breakdown,’ Adam mutters loud enough to make it obvious he meant everyone to hear.

‘Fuck off Adam,’ he says, sticking his finger up at the guy again.

‘Oh, you remember my name,’ the dark-haired guy says, sarcastic. ‘Now I’m feeling really _special_.’

‘Guess you’re annoying enough to make an impression—’

Which is when the door swings back open and Amy sticks her head into the room. ‘He ok now?’ she asks, talking about him but not to him.

‘I’m fucking _peachy_,’ he snaps. _Fucking hell_— this is actually getting kind of embarrassing. ‘And leaving, I’m—’

‘Yeah, I don’t think so,’ Adam says, moving vaguely in front of the door. ‘Look, I know you probably don’t even, like, _remotely care_, but if you leave now and do end up wrapping yourself around a tree or something then I’m going to feel pretty shitty— Brad too, right?’ grey eyes go to the taller guy, who then nods. ‘So, just— I don’t know. Have mercy on our poor, sad, pathetic, mom-ish souls and crash here tonight. You can have this room, there’s like, a _lock_ on the door and everything— not that anyone ever uses it—’

‘No, they do not,’ Brad adds with a shake of his head and a funny look on his face. ‘They most definitely _do not_ do that, even though I have _told_— well, maybe not _you_, but, like, every party for _years_ I said there was a lock on this door—’

‘_Fine_, Jesus _fuck_,’ he snaps, but sleeping here at Brad Dailey’s sounds no worse than sleeping at home. Actually, sleeping pretty much _anywhere_ would almost be better. Fucking _Neil_—

If he actually thinks about it he knows it’s only a matter of time before the man goes after him again.

Anyway, if he’s at home he might end up _thinking about stuff_— and there’ll be nothing to distract him, so—

But then Adam is sitting back on the edge of the bed. _What_? If the guy can sense something, thinks he’s getting a _fuck_ out of this— The dark haired guy gives him a _look_, ‘I said I was gonna roll you on your side when you pass out.’

‘Jesus fucking _Christ_,’ he hisses. ‘I am seriously not going to fucking _pass out_ from not even one _whole_ bottle of Jack—’ He can see the guy isn’t convinced. God fucking _damnit_. Fine. _Whatever_. ‘If you want to waste your night staring at me then it’s not my fucking problem— just get me another drink. I’m already getting _bored_.’

‘Nope,’ Adam replies, long and slow and unimpressed, lips popping on the ‘p’ sound. ‘If you’re bored we’ll play poker for matches or something—’ _what the fuck?_ Grey eyes turn to Brad, ‘Why don’t you go get us a pack of cards?’

Brad starts bitching about being made to play fetch, which gets Adam bitching back at him, and while the two of them are carrying on Amy creeps into the room, shutting the door behind herself, and flops down onto the bed next to him, carefully avoiding the wet spot she left. She looks at him, looks away, then leans in to whisper— eyes darting to both of the other guys warily— ‘What happened, it wasn’t—? Was it—? I mean. It’s not like I need _reassurance_, or anything lame like that, but it wasn’t _me_, was it?’

‘What?’ he blurts out, before his mind catches up with her words. ‘_Shit_. Um. _No_. Jesus fuck— _No_. It’s— Not something I want to talk about, like, _at all_—’ **understatement** ‘—But, yeah— _not you_—’ fuck. So fucking _awkward_. Oh God he is not good at this reassuring shit.

She studies him for a moment, before nodding. Decisive. ‘Cool. So, _poker_—’ she smirks. ‘I am going to _thrash_ you all—’

‘Nah Uh,’ Adam declares as Brad finally leaves. ‘If anyone is doing the thrashing it’s gonna be _me_. Just ask anyone on the team— _not him_—’ he quickly says, looking at him, ‘Me and Hargrove have never played. But everyone else—’

‘But _Steve_,’ she says with a smirk. ‘_I_ have played poker with Steve and I know there’s no way in hell you’ve beaten _him_.’

_Steve_—

—

He sucks in a breath and forces himself back to the here and now, tuning back in to Adam as the guy is saying, ‘Yeah, but that’s because he’s an _idiot savant_ or something at the game.’

‘Don’t be mean,’ Amy says, settling back more comfortably on the bed. ‘Steve’s nice. _Sweet_.’

‘You only say that because he used to let you do whatever you wanted to him—’

‘Can we _stop _fucking talking about _Steve Harrington_!’ escapes as a snarl before he realises he’s about to speak.

‘Who pissed in your Cheerios?’ Amy asks at the same time as Adam says, ‘Aren’t you two friends? I could swear you two are friends— Don’t tell me he’s pissed _you_ off now too—’

‘He’s done _jack shit_,’ he snaps. ‘He’s done _nothing_. He’s fine. He’s a fucking _great guy—_ I just don’t want to think about him right now—’

Now they’re both _looking _at him, and he knows he just sounded nuts, and he can’t read either of their _looks_, but he thinks maybe there’s something kind of _knowing_ there and it makes him want to rip his skin off and run screaming into the night— But then Brad is back, chattering like the fucking _idiot_ he is, and the next thing he knows they’re all settling in to play poker, Adam distributing around boxes of matches like they’re little kids. Not that he actually wants to play for cash. Fuck his life. This is so fucking _weird_— Oh. And Adam— and maybe Brad— are waiting for him to pass out.

Hah.

Last time he played poker was with Uncle Harry— First time he played poker was also with Uncle Harry. Uncle Harry taught him to play and since Uncle Harry shot himself he hasn’t been in the mood for the game, but _fuck it_.

He loses track of time as they play, the only indicator of its passing the sound of the party outside the room getting louder and more stupid sounding— the occasional rattle of the doorknob and male and female complaints when they realise someone must have locked it— and the haze of blue smoke that begins to fill the room— even after Brad cracks the window.

He has his Gauloises— and Amy bums one off him until she tries it, giving it back with a filthy look, before pulling out a rumpled pack of Eves— _“What?”_ she says at his _look_, _“They’re pretty and they make my fingers look longer.”_— and Adam pulls out his own pack of Benson & Hedges and all three of them ignore Brad’s whining _“Come on guys. I **need **my lungs. How am I going to play professionally with lung cancer_—_” _until the guy gives in and bums one off Adam with a moan of _“I really am going to quit. I fucking **swear it**_.”

He’s out of practise, but it comes back quick. He goes from losing almost as often as Brad to winning almost as often as Adam after a few rounds— He’s not quite as good as Amy though. _Fuck she’s good_.

Hah fucking hah-hah— In another life she’d be girlfriend material. Or as close to a girlfriend as he’s ever had. He’s had _girls_— girls he’s been with more than once. Girls he’s been exclusive with for a while— but he’s never had a girl who thought what they were was forever any more than he’d thought it himself.

Company for a while. A warm body. Someone to fuck— a body to learn and learn to please. Someone to joke with. Drink with—

Never someone to dream of settling down with.

God, why is he thinking about that shit right now. Why—

Did they used to go together, Amy and Steve? And what the fuck does it mean that he used to let her do whatever she wanted with him?

_No_.

Absolutely fucking _not_. Not right now. Not _ever_.

Not thinking—

Not—

—

Eventually Brad goes out in search of some beers— since apparently Adam’s relaxed his momness in the face of him not actually _passing out_— so they drink, and play, and drink some more, and then Brad surrenders in the face of his undeniable inferiority at the game, and it’s down to Adam and Amy and him— but Amy’s getting tired— so is Adam— and _he’s_ getting kind of _bored_—

And it’s all kind of slow and sleepy and he thinks he can remember throwing down his final hand and collecting up his little pile of winnings and telling them he’s done. Thinks he can remember curling up on the bed. Thinks—

_Thinks he’s in his baby, by the side of the road. Huddled up in the back seat, knees pressed to chest. The car’s still and dead. The air’s still and dead, inside, and he knows outside, and he’s singing to himself— **Scorpions, Rock You Like a Hurricane**— but he can’t remember all the lyrics and the beat’s all off, too fast, breaths coming panted and panicked, and his arms are wrapped so tight around his knees and—_

** _He’s running through the forest. Running. Running towards—_ **

—

He wakes up in the same fucking clearing near Steve’s house as last time, sitting up and disturbing what is probably the same fucking _bird_ to go fluttering off in a chattering panic. ‘_Fuck_,’ he curls up on himself, head in his hands.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For internalised homophobia, homophobia, mentions of weird vibes between older guys and underage guys, mentions of feeling demeaned during sex, mentions of girls being sexually assaulted while drunk, also mentions of misogyny, please let me know if I missed any.
> 
> Finally finished this chapter. Been working on it off and on for *ages*- which is probably why it's longer than usual. Anyway, here we have it... Steve's miserable wank. Thank you all for the comments and kudos, and I hope you're all safe!

He heads for his bathroom, for his shower— standing under the water for a long, long time before he can bring himself to grab at his dick— only— _who can he think about?_

No Billy. No Nancy— and like hell is he tugging his dick thinking about _Tommy_ after last time. He still has _some_ dignity left, thankyouverymuch. He tries imagining no one, just a girl to start with, a collection of _parts_, things he finds attractive— but what he’s always found most attractive was the _person_. He wasn’t into Nancy because of her eyes or her lips or her tits or her legs, but because she was _Nancy_. That— that _thing_ that made her _her_.

So all his imaginings, all the attempts to build a girl in his head to jerk off to, just become Nancy and then become her telling him that he’s _bullshit_. Same problem with trying to think about a guy—

Not that the guy becomes _Nancy_, but the guy becomes Tommy or Billy or some terrible Tommy-Billy hybrid that makes him feel guilty and that he knows is about to call him a faggot and maybe hit him.

So he tries to think of someone else, someone he’s been attracted to in the past, someone who’s never done something that makes him _hurt_— a girl at first, but he’s so stuck on Billy that he gives in and tries to think of a guy— but thinking of a guy makes him feel guilty, like he’s somehow _tainting_ them, and even if he pushes past that feeling—

He tries Richie Lewis, who’s big and _strong_ and has nice hands and is nice enough to him— _really_ nice to him sometimes— and who he’s seen with his shirt off, seen sweaty and stinking like a _man_— and maybe the guy isn’t as good looking as _Billy_— eyes a bit too close together, teeth a bit too— ok, so Richie Lewis looks like an all-American, fairly attractive for _Hawkins_, cross-eyed _horse_— but it’s not the _horse_ thing that puts him off— or even the memory of Tommy’s irrational hatred of the guy— it’s—

Well. He kinda, maybe, possibly used to maybe have something like a crush on the guy, back when he was younger. Only— It’s hard to work out what it is, but there were moments between them, moments when it was just the two of them— because his dad would get Richie around to do this or that but would never hang around while it was happening— and—

It’s not like Richie Lewis makes him feel weird, except it is. _Weird_ weird. Not _good_ weird. Unnerved kinda— and most of it’s nothing. Most of it’s— they’d be having these perfectly normal conversations and all the hair on his body would be standing on end and he’d be desperate to be out of there. Yeah. Most of it— but there is that time—

The man’s truck seemed to be lingering a bit too much outside his house after Richie had done some yard work for his dad— not that his dad, or his mom, were in town, but still the work had been very much _for his dad _and not _for him_— and he’d looked out the window to try and work out if something was wrong and—

Ok. So he thinks he caught Richie Lewis jerking off in his truck outside the house once and that’s—

It’s kind of— well. It is _weird, _isn’t it?

He could never really look at the guy the same again after that.

It does mean the guy might be a bit— _sexually different_— so maybe he shouldn’t feel quite so guilty for thinking about him, but at the same time. _Weird_. Kind of _creepy_ weird. Probably not actually _creepy_, probably just—

Fuck it. Whether or not jerking off in your truck outside your employer’s home when only his sixteen-year-old son is home is creepy— _personally_ he felt kinda creeped out. So he can probably stop trying to justify the fact he doesn’t want to jerk it to the thought of the guy.

Anyway, after Richie Lewis he runs over some of the guys in his class— but none of them are _Billy_, and the better looking ones all make him think of the guy in one way or another. Eyes nearly the same shade of blue. Red lips. Big, _strong_, blunt _manly_ hands—

Or they’re Brad Dailey or Adam Larrimer, who Billy is apparently hanging out with— and Brad’s kind of—

He can remember this one party, when he and Adam had been struggling with some guy he thinks was the cousin of someone on the basketball team— but could have just been a blow in from out of town— and who had been caught by Becky Fitzgerald with his hand up the skirt of a passed out drunk Harmony Wyatt. Her _best friend. _Becky had been shouting and trying to kill the guy, the guy was swearing, spitting and trying to kill everyone back— and built like a fucking _ox_ that seemed to have at least three sets more arms than anyone other than Billy in his _other form_ should have— and neither he nor Adam were having much luck keeping hold of him— until Brad came marching over, _picked the guy up_ and _tossed him out on his ass_. Just like that.

It’s still impressive, thinking about it—

But thinking about it, other than it being _hot_, makes him remember that Brad and Tommy seem to absolutely _loathe_ each other— Tommy especially after that night, though he has no idea _why_— and not long after that Brad seemed to start not liking _him_. Not like the guy hates _Tommy_, but kind of weird around him and avoiding him everywhere but on the basketball court—

So, yeah. Trying to jerk off to Brad Dailey who maybe hates him too seems a bit—

There’s always Adam?

Adam is—

_Hot_. Yeah. Maybe the next hottest guy in town after Billy— and smart and nice and— but he’s always had the sense the grey eyed guy was probably mocking him behind that straight, _white_ smile.

Also Adam’s not—

Well, he is a _guy_, but he’s not, like—

Wow. Yeah he is kind of _weird_ isn’t he?

Adam’s not quite so ragingly _masculine_ as Billy. Or Brad Dailey. Or Richie Lewis. Or even _Tommy_—

He’s a bit more—

Why the hell does his mind think _civilised?_

You know, rarely smells of sweat, hands not so calloused, nails all a little too _perfect, _drinks but not _too much_, apparently capable of recognising and _talking about _his feelings if the word of girls he’s been with is anything to go by— also capable of working cooperatively, and doesn’t seem to have a pressing _need _to be top dog all the fucking time—

_Well bred_ as his mom would say— which is offputting in its own right. Because when she says things like that he’s always had the sense she’d use the exact same tone if she was talking about a racehorse or a purebred dog.

He’s also from a nice, middle class yuppie family— a little less well off than his own, but the kind of people both his parents approve of— and has been dragged to the same white linen lunches and charity drives as _he_ has and—

If Adam moves back to town after college will probably just hire Richie Lewis to fix things around the house instead of doing it himself.

Yeah.

He _is_ weird.

_Billy_ would never hire Richie Lewis for _anything_—

Billy might not have been able to outright pick that guy up, but he would have come over and beat him until he ran off with his tail between his legs—

Billy is—

—

Oh fuck. Oh hell. Oh _damn_.

He manages two, three, _four_ long and luxurious tugs of his hard dick before a flash of Billy’s face, Billy’s _eyes_, cold and filled with the hatred they used to be, the _disgust_, is coming across his mind. _Faggot_ the Billy he sees seems to whisper.

He kind of feels like screaming.

He’s so— wow. _So many things_— but above all that now he’s feeling frustrated and his dick’s still kind of hard and—

What if he just strokes it, doesn’t think about anything?

—

It works about as well as he expected, which is _not at all_. He’s never been good at the parts of sex that aren’t about the other person— and yes, that includes jerking himself off. If he’s just doing it for the way it feels it seems all a bit pointless.

Honestly his favourite parts of sex have always been getting whoever he’s with off— and, yeah, ok, part of that might just be his dick— All those guys whining about wanting a big dick, a real, honest to God, _big dick_ should try it for a while and see how they feel— but maybe they wouldn’t care, maybe they’re the kind of guys that don’t give a shit about what sex is like for who they’re with, but for him—

It’s not like he hates it either, his dick, no matter what _Carol _used to say— just because he honestly doesn’t care if he gets to stick it in anyone— in fact would rather not, not unless he’s sure they can take it, and even then sometimes it makes him feel _weird_. He thinks it’s guilt—

But he really doesn’t hate it. Or have an _issue_ about it— and yeah, sometimes he does feel bad— but that’s mainly because the girls he’s been with have always been wary of it and not because he resents not being able to stick it in them anyway. It really doesn’t matter that much. Sex isn’t just— it _can’t_ be just— it’s about _more_, so much more, than just a guy getting his dick wet. A hand or a mouth or between the thighs or just rubbing off against someone, and even then that’s second to him, because—

Sex for him, the _best sex_ he’s ever had, has always been about _his_ mouth and hands, about the other person’s pleasure, about feeling someone fall apart because of him— even with _Nancy_— brave Nancy. Nancy who insisted on conquering the challenge of his anatomy, who managed, who would climb aboard and ride him with more eagerness than any girl has ever approached his dick— but even then, even when things were _good_ between them, they only ever managed the full fuck about once a week or so, because her body would need to recover after and he couldn’t stand the thought of _hurting her_.

The absolute _best sex _he’s ever had was sucking Tommy’s cock, but he’s not going to think about that right now.

Nancy is a close second. A _very close_ second.

So—

Either he turns the cold water on full and hopes his dick deflates, or else he’s going to have to—

And he knows the cold water trick won’t work, and he knows all this is just going to end in him doing something he feels guilty about anyway— so why not do it curled up in his nice, soft bed?

He feels loose hipped and embarrassed as he slinks off to his room, knowing he’s going to be doing his best to get himself off while thinking about Billy.

The thing is— he discovers as he lies down, as his hands trace the lines of his body down to his dick, as he regrets, just for a moment, stripping those Billy scented sheets off and shoving them in the wash with the guy’s sleep pants— because it’d been _days_ and Billy seems mad at him and he’d started feeling guilty about the way he was _treasuring_ those hints of the guy’s scent still carried by the cloth— he has no idea of how to jerk off while thinking about Billy while also not feeling like he’s being eaten alive by the shame of it— not that he’s touching himself thinking about a _guy_, but—

Same as before. He _knows_ Billy would hate it, even the _suggestion_ of it, so—

It feels kind of like he’s assaulting the guy, or some version of the guy trapped in his head, _helpless_—

And he kind of knows what he wants, where the temptation lies, imagining that pretty pink dick on his tongue, stretching his jaw, flirting with the back of his throat, threatening to make him _choke_ but not actually— and it would be so much _better_ than Tommy, wouldn’t it? Because even though Billy isn’t monstrously _huge_ he’s _bigger_. Longer, _thicker _and that seems—

_Tempting_.

And then he’s feeling guilty about that, because he knows Tommy is sensitive about the size of his dick— and he knows it never bothered Carol and sure as hell never bothered _him_— and even though things— are as they are— it still feels kind of disloyal fantasising about another guy’s bigger dick.

But Billy wouldn’t want his mouth on his dick, and there’s no way he can convince himself otherwise— and all his attempts to just make him feel _weird_. Like imagining they’re both drunk and Billy doesn’t know who he is, just a mouth in the dark—

And that really is _assault_, isn’t it? Or at least something that would make Billy feel _awful_ after. _Contaminated_— and he doesn’t want to do that to someone, _anyone_, and has never understood how people can just—

And now he feels even more miserable. Fuck this hardon, it’s like, _the worst_.

Maybe if he imagines Billy as he used to be, Billy who really, really, _really_ hated him— in that aggressive, confusing, _flirty _kind of way— What if it’s after practise, everyone else gone home, just the two of them alone in the locker room, in the showers— him not realising the other guy is there at first— ok, ok, he stretches out, scratching his fingers through the hair on his chest, over a nipple— shuddering at the little spark of pleasure but not chasing it down. _Guys should not have such sensitive nipples. It’s **weird. At least Amy’s the only one who ever worked that one out**_— spreading his legs a little before reaching down, giving his cock a _determined_ stroke. He can do this. He can—

Billy would shove him up against the wall, the two of them naked, _wet_, grinding his face against the tile as the other guy _put him in his place_. Because Billy hated him, _hated_ him, wanted to _hurt _him, punish him for some sin he didn’t remember committing, so the other guy would be aggressive, would be _mean_, and it wouldn’t be about sex for the blond, it wouldn’t be about _desiring _him, liking him, _lov_— **_any of that_**. It would just be cruel. It would just be a reminder that as far as Billy was concerned he was _worthless_.

So the guy would pin him in place— and Billy could do it too, even _before_. No point kidding himself. Guy has always been _strong_. Pin him in place and grind against him and he’d be confused but the _feel_ of him, Billy, _big and strong and_— his sweat has always smelt good. Clean— or maybe not so much _clean_ as _healthy_. Cologne or not— like a _man_— and he’d be trapped, made to feel small and stupid and weak and— he’d have to, have to, to _take it_ and—

A sob escapes before he can stop it, body curling up into a confused ball of desire and abject _misery_.

It’s terrible and weak and _stupid_, but he doesn’t want to be treated like that— even though that’s probably all he can hope for with Billy— maybe even with most guys.

Fucking hell— is he a _girl_? Wanting to be treated _nice_.

Except he’s not. He’s never felt like a girl— not that there’s anything wrong with being a girl. A _woman—_ He likes women. Always has, and not just in a _sex _way— And he likes the things people say make a woman a _woman_— Taking care of people instead of living just for himself— but he still doesn’t feel like a woman. He feels like a _man_. Just a—

_Failure of one_.

A weak, pathetic, _faggy_ loser.

No wonder he’s got no friends— other than Robin, but she’s far too good for him— and no wonder Billy’s sick of him or whatever—

_He can’t even get himself off properly_.

Jesus.

If only it could be simple. If only there was something he could think about, _remember_, without it all making him feel _sick_. Like that night, Billy naked in his bed, pressed against him— if only they’d— in their _sleep_, so there’s be no _blame_— curled even closer, rubbed off against each other, so he could have woken in Billy’s arms, feeling _safe _and _protected_ or whatever and _sated_ and— maybe Billy wouldn’t have been angry. Maybe they both could have pretended it didn’t happen. But it could have been a memory he could have kept, brought out in moments like these, and only felt kind of guilty—

What if it had happened though? _What_ would have happened? Not from the inside, but as an outsider looking in, what would their bodies have done while their minds were too deep in sleep to drive the situation?

Billy was naked, half underneath him, but _holding him in place_— and it’s not like he didn’t try to wriggle free while the guy was asleep, it just didn’t _work_. Because Billy really is scarily _strong_. Billy’s dick was against his thigh too— So what if, asleep, Billy had grabbed at him, pulled at him, until their hips had lined up? Yeah. Yeah— That’s. That’s _better_. Because it’s— it’s not his _fault_, not _Billy’s_ fault, and the blond couldn’t be that angry about it, could he?

He imagines those big, strong hands pawing unconsciously at his back, his waist, pulling his hips down and holding him in place while Billy grinds up mindlessly. There’d be no kissing, but that’s alright, there’d be no careful exploration, finding out what the other _likes_, but that’s ok, and it’s not like he could suck on Billy’s big, strong _blunt _fingers, but that’s—

But what if it hadn’t been like that? What if they’d both been awake and Billy had wanted it too? Would they have kissed? Would he have gotten a chance to suck on Billy’s fingers? Would Billy have stroked his dick? Could he have sucked Billy’s dick? Would the other guy have wanted more? He does know what that more is. He’s heard about it in the locker room— always spoken with a sneer, everyone acting all grossed out— and there’s what Carol did. The first time. the second time.

Billy wouldn’t have wanted him to do _that_ to the blond, but would Billy have wanted to do it to _him_?

_Would he have let Billy?_

And the flash of _no_ and _every time he’s ever been touched like that the next thing he knows he’s being called a faggot and the people involved are moving further and further away from him_ and _no one will ever stay around if he lets them_ quickly gets absorbed into _Billy wouldn’t want to anyway_.

Billy wouldn’t want _any _of it.

The guilt rises, thick and cloying, and he _forces_ his mind away, forces it back to his fantasy, the two of them _asleep_—

Yeah. They’d be asleep. Groin to groin—

And maybe Billy’s hands would worm their way under his pyjamas, push them down, grope over his hips and back and ass as their bare dicks lined up— Billy’s pretty perfect sexy dick— rubbing up against each other until, until—

He comes before he realises it’s about to happen and then lies there panting, feeling torn up and confused and sad and kind of—

Yeah.

_Lonely_.

And he’s too tired right now to clean up, so he just wipes his hand on his sheets, grabbing the edge of them and dabbing at the mess on his belly, before curling on his side and trying to sleep.

It’s stupid. Because now he _misses_ Billy on top of the guilt he’s trying not to feel, and the missing makes it feel like he’s _reaching_ for the guy as he’s falling asleep, and as he falls, falls, something _lurches_ and something that’s been barely holding on feels like it _snaps _and for a split second it’s like he’s dislocated his _self_ but then—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought maybe I should mention that just because Steve in this fic isn't into the whole *Billy happening to him in the shower thing* doesn't mean I'm trying to shame anyone who is. Steve's just- very unhappy and feeling a bit delicate. Poor thing.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For suicidal ideation, emotional child abuse, starvation, possibly body horror, please let me know if I missed any.
> 
> Another Steve chapter... I'm not sure if the next one will be Billy or Steve, and since Steve is temporally ahead of Billy whether I should go back to Billy to catch him up. We shall see, I guess. I hope you're all doing well, that you're safe and coping as well as can be expected with everything that's happening. Thank you, as always for reading, and for the comments and kudos and everything!

It’s heavy. He’s heavy. It’s _dark_.

He tries to sit up.

_He can’t_.

He can’t move at all. He’s completely paralysed.

_Panic_.

He struggles, struggles, _struggles_— nothing happens. _Nothing_. He can’t even hear the breath that should be panting in his ears, feel his heart thundering in his chest— feel _anything_—

But he can hear something.

It takes a moment to work out what it is, for everything to start to make enough sense he can try and figure things out. A voice.

A familiar voice—

Though sounding tired and even more _wrecked_ than he’s ever heard before—

_Billy_ he tries to call out, but no sound escapes.

‘—Yeah. I really have finally lost my fucking mind, huh Dead Girl? I should not have come back to this shit hole— You saw the fucking— _whatever the fuck they were_— on that thing. Looked like it wanted to fucking run me though. Spider-looking— At least I know it’s not _that _fucking_ bastard_. Didn’t look like— what did it look like to you? Looked kind of like what I think we— but can’t be. _He’s_ out there, enjoying his life, everything gone one like fucking _normal_, not stuck in here with us—’

_Billy_ he tries again. Still, nothing, nothing except—

The darkness is lightening. Not much, just enough that he’s starting to make out a blear of something around him. He thinks he’s lying down, looking up at the sky— except it’s like the sky is falling— or is it _snowing_? Something’s drifting down, landing on the face he can’t feel—

He wishes he could turn his head to look around him, but he can’t. All he can do is lie there and listen to Billy— sounding almost _mad_ and more than a little _broken_— rambling on about monsters and dead girls. He wants to get up, find Billy— so close, he sounds so close, but he can’t _see_ him— do _something_, anything, to help. To make that tone in his voice go away. Make him feel _better_—

He can’t.

He’s still _trapped_.

The fear is starting to get swallowed up by the sheer _frustration_—

_Billy! _His mind bellows.

_Nothing_.

—

And then there he is, Billy— his face far above him, looking down on him, except— _Oh. _He looks _awful_. Thin, haggard, _dirty_— blond hair hanging down in tangled locks and dark with grime— face a mess of uneven, untrimmed scruff. But it’s still _Billy_.

Ok, yeah, a pale, sickly looking Billy with tired, red eyes and a kind of crazed energy about him, but still _Billy_.

‘Are you the problem Dead Girl?’ the guy says, making no sense, because he seems to be addressing _him_— ‘Are you why I can’t just fucking _die_? Is it because you’ve been left behind and I’m the only one to remember you? Capable of giving you a decent fucking _burial_? If I drag you out of here and put you in the dirt will I be finally left in _peace_?’ It’s a furious hiss by the end of it, but he’s barely listening.

_Die?_

**_No_**.

Something _lurches_ again. Falling. _Dizzy_. His sense of self spiralling, spiralling, spiralling— A gasp. He sucks in a breath, deep, staggering, almost losing his balance, almost tripping on—

‘_Barb_?’ he breathes out and then _panics _because that is not _his_ voice. Hands go up, grope over face, hair, beard, throat, chest— he looks down. _Grimy_. Shorter than him. Thin now, but still the bones are heavier set, fingers blunter—

_Billy_. He is Billy—

But he’s still _Steve_. He knows he’s Steve. He’s just Steve in Billy’s—

_Body_.

His gaze goes back to the crumpled pile of bones and tattered flesh, familiar clothes, the hair still shining such a bright copper in the strange light of the place. ‘Oh God,’ he breathes out, whirling around, taking in what’s around him.

‘Oh God—’ this is— this is his _pool_, but drained of water and with horrible rotting vine-like _crap _everywhere and stuff falling from the sky and— ‘The Upside Down.’

This is the Upside Down, it has to be—

Which means he has to be dreaming, because he can remember lying in bed— doing what he did— and he can remember waking up here, but there’s no bit in between, and if he was really here there would be a bit in between— Also, he would not be in Billy’s body.

A nightmare, that’s all.

A nightmare because of the shit with his pool and Billy ending up in it and— and because he _misses_ the other guy. Worries about him. That’s all.

A nightmare.

—

‘Oh God Billy, even if this is a nightmare I can’t leave you here,’ he finds himself saying. It’s true, he _can’t_. He needs to— to—

What?

_Inside_. It has to be better inside the house, doesn’t it? More comfortable than lurking around on the bottom of his pool with Barb’s dead body, anyway.

The first few steps are more a staggering lurch than anything else. A body seems like it should just be a _body_, but it’s like his sense of gravity is just a bit _off_, his limbs too short, his hips and shoulders not quite where he expects them to be, and everything feels kind of _numb_, like he’s not quite present, not quite in full control— but by the time he’s made it to the ladder and climbed out of the pool he’s almost got the hang of it.

Wow. Ok, yeah—

Um—

His house looks like _shit_. Oh God, what is all that crap everywhere?

This place is so gross. _So gross_.

Smells wrong too, and the air’s weirdly _thin_, unsatisfying when he breathes it in, leaving his lungs feeling hollow—

Also it’s _cold_.

He glances down again, takes in the torn, stained wifebeater— ‘A sweater,’ he says out loud. ‘I’ll get you one of my sweaters—’ if his sweaters are still inside his house. If that’s still his house. If—

He walks— a little awkwardly, but no longer a drunken _stagger_— over to the nearest garden bed, poking around until he finds _that_ rock and flips it up, pulling the spare key up from the cold, kind of _slimy_ ground beneath. ‘Wow, _so gross_.’

After letting himself in he locks the back door, just in case, leaving the key on the kitchen counter as he goes looking for something to feed the blond’s body. There’s a sense of hunger, not quite _immediate_, like it’s his own, but sort of vague, coming from the body he thinks— it’s still not _his_ body.

When he turns on the taps nothing happens, so he goes to the fridge, thinking maybe some of the soda he keeps around for the kids will still be there— he slams the thing shut the moment he opens it. ‘Holy hell, _yuck_,’ what the _fuck_ is that in there? It’s—

Everything is _rotting_. Corrupted or something, and the contents of the fridge—

He shudders. _Ick_.

He tries the cupboards next, but it’s all the same, it’s all— ‘There’s no food, is there? Not here—’ Billy must _starving_— and there’s nothing he can do about it.

‘Oh,’ he mutters, then ‘_Shit_. Oh God man, I don’t know what to do—’

Cold. The body is still cold. Even with the distance between him and what the body is feeling he can feel that.

Feeling kind of helpless, unable to help, unable to really _fix_ anything, he goes upstairs, heading for his own room. He feels like apologizing to Billy, to the body, even though it’s not his fault— except it kind of is, because it’s _his_ nightmare— Why did he have to decide to dream about trapping Billy in the Upside Down? Not cool of him.

He hesitates outside of his door— He’s not sure he wants to see his room in the state it’s probably going to be in— Even though he’s never had full control over the place, always been at the mercy of his mom’s redecorating whims or his dad’s coming in whenever he wants— mostly to remind him of what a failure, what a _disappointment_, he is— it’s also the closest thing he’s ever had to a space that’s just _his_, where he can pretend he’s safe— More literally in recent years than just safe from the reality of the world.

Slowly he pushes the door open, looks around— it’s—

Actually not that bad. Compared to the rest of the house his room doesn’t seem too affected by the rot. It’s still dingy, still smells _off_, but none of the vines or whatever they are have made it inside.

He glances at the bed, wondering if Billy would like to lie down, _rest_, but before that— he heads to his closet, contemplating his sweaters. The thing is, they’d all look so _nice_ on the blond— not that _that_ should be his main concern, his main concern should be that Billy’s cold— but still— That navy blue one, with Billy’s golden hair and blue eyes— or the burgundy— or the black silk-cashmere blend that’s always made him looked kind of washed out—

Yeah, that one. It’d been a present from his mom— who had then been disappointed when he’d tried it on and demanded he never wear it again— And it’s a pity, because it’s so soft and warm and—

A little dusty, the purity of the black faded to a kind of charcoal colour, but it’s still intact, not _rotten_, and it goes over his head— _Billy’s_ head— easily and once he’s smoothed it down he finally turns to the mirror.

‘Oh,’ he sighs, and it’s got two meanings, because on one hand the black of the sweater looks so good against Billy’s colouring, and Billy is still so amazingly good looking, but at the same time the blond looks even worse than he’d thought before. Thin, _too thin_, tired, _exhausted_ even, and the grime is everywhere, and the hair might be a complete write-off—

_Why is he dreaming of the other like this_? How can his mind be so cruel?

Billy looks good with a full beard though, very _masculine_.

Wow, yeah, he really is turning into a _pervert_.

He wishes he could control this dream, instead of being forced to ride along inside of it. If he could he’d be here, in his _own _body, Billy as Billy, and then he could wrap the other in his arms, and because it’s a dream, yeah, Billy might not even _object_.

Still, he does the best he can, wrapping Billy’s shorter arms around Billy’s torso, feeling the bones so close to the skin even beneath the sweater. His gaze goes back to the bed— the blond looks like he needs about a week of sleep— and it’s not like it can be all that comfortable sleeping in the bottom of his scary pool all alone with dead Barb.

As he’s heading towards it his gaze catches on something else— his bat. Leaning by the bed where he left it. No sign at all of the rot of this place— he scoops it up as he climbs onto the bed— he’s about to curl up on his usual side, but—

There’s _something_—

He shakes it off. The sense of _no, there’s no room for him, there’s already something there_— the whole experience is so weird he doesn’t even question it, instead curling up on the side where Tommy and Carol— and _Nancy—_ used to— Hands curled in fists around the grip of the bat.

If something comes for Billy he’ll do everything in his power to keep the blond safe, everything—

Something lurches again. He almost drops the bat, his grip on it coming loose, but the hands, Billy’s hands, tighten instead, even though he can barely feel them anymore. He tries to sit up, tries to fight the sudden feeling of being _yanked_ at, a weird kind of dizzy, lurching— he blinks, _blinks_, vision going bleary, for a moment sure he sees someone else in the bed with him, brown hair spread across the pillow, long, knobbly fingers lying on the sheets, twitching, almost _reaching_ for him, but then everything _lurches_ again—

—


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: for domestic violence, internalised homophobia, a bit of body horror- please tell me if I missed any.
> 
> Ok, we're back to Billy again. Steve's present is still in Billy's future so for now the plan is to catch Billy up to Steve- that may change, depending on writer's block etc. To be honest I'm not sure if it's the right choice stylistically- but for now it's the choice I'm making. I hope you're all safe and well- they're talking about starting to ease up restrictions here from next week, which will be weird- and thank you, as always, for the kudos and comments etc. This fic wouldn't have made it so far without you all. (Also I'm really hoping you'll all forgive me for how long it's going to be before Billy and Steve are spending time together again. Billy just needs to get his shit together a bit first)

It’s early. That’s— _something_.

He follows what has to be his own trail— wide, destructive, heading in a different direction than last time— and wonders if his baby is somewhere out here or if he—

_Walked_ is probably not the right word. He’s afraid _skittered_ might be though.

Like a fucking _spider_.

Yeah, ok, he can admit this is a problem at this point, but he has no idea what to do about it so he’s gonna just— _ignore it_.

Yeah.

Ignore it.

Walking gets a bit boring after a while so he starts jogging, then running, even though his boots, jeans and silk shirt aren’t exactly appropriate work out gear. He doesn’t have all day though, and he knows, well _suspects_ at first, _knows_ part way into it, that he can run pretty fast and maintain that speed for a fairly long time because— yeah. _Ignoring it_.

So he’s back at Brad’s house and in his baby and speeding along the quiet, early morning streets back home before too long, Gauloise hanging out of his mouth, the urge to blare his music suppressed. No. He does _not_ want any attention right now.

Of course the problem with getting home early is his dad hasn’t left for work yet— the man’s car still out front. He parks a couple of houses away and hunkers down, chain smoking and eying the front door until he sees Neil— followed quickly by Susan— emerging.

She goes to lock the door but Neil grabs her roughly by the upper arms, shaking her, mouth flapping and he’s out of the car before he’s thought about it, stalking over in time to hear his dad berating the woman, calling her a _stupid bitch_ and going on about how she _can’t do anything right _and that she_ better be ready on time for tonight or else he’ll—_

Her eyes are huge in her face as she looks at him, and he can’t tell if she’s begging for help or begging for him to fuck off and not make things worse but all he can feel is _anger_. ‘Get the fuck away from her!’ he snaps.

Neil straightens up as tall as he can— and he _hates_ that the prick is taller than he is— and looks at him with _disdain_, hands tightening on Susan’s arms until she can’t hold back a little hiss of pain, before releasing her so roughly she stumbles. For a moment they’re staring each other down, him and his dad, but then the man turns and walks away without saying anything. As if he’s invisible.

Fuck him.

‘You alright?’ he asks, turning to Susan. She looks— small. _Hurt_. Not just physically but—

‘I—’ she begins, and for a horrible second he thinks she’s about to cry, but as he watches she pulls herself together. ‘I have to go, you’ll pick up Max later?’

‘Of course,’ he replies, watching her scurry off to her car.

—

_Shit_.

And yeah, it’s not like he didn’t know his dad was going to start hurting Susan at some point— he knew, Max knew, Neil himself must have known— about the only person who could have been in the dark about it was Susan herself— but it’s still— He _hates it._

How long’s it been going on for? That’s the other thing. He doesn’t know. The way she acted— that’s not the first time the old bastard’s hurt her, but that’s the first time _he’s_ seen it—

So it’s been going on behind closed doors— and he doesn’t want to think about the implications of _that_ either—

_Fuck_.

Fucking hell.

The thing—

The thing is—

He’ll do it again. And _again_. Now it’s started. There’s no way he can hold himself back, not Neil, not when the thing he should be _not doing_ is hurting someone—

So he’ll do it. Again and again and one day he’ll do it in front of Max and then _all hell will break loose_. Because Max won’t put up with it, he _knows_ she won’t, so she’ll—

And then Neil’ll—

And then _he’ll_—

Because he’s not letting his dad hurt her, not _Max_. Not _ever_—

Fuck. Another thing he does not want to think about.

Like—

Like—

He lets himself into the house, brushing the tangle of his hair back from his face.

So.

_He wants to fuck Steve._

The thought echoes unpleasantly through him as he treks to the kitchen to make some coffee but he can’t keep running from it. It’s— _undeniable_. He wants to fuck Steve.

Fuck. Makes all that stuff about jerking off in the guy’s bathroom make a hell of a lot more sense.

So. _Is he a faggot?_

Hah. Fucking— _hah_. What a fucking question.

Jesus.

How to even go about working it out?

Well. He wants to fuck Steve, so maybe that’s answer enough, but—

The thing is he does actually like girls. He thinks. He _does,_ yeah— Like Amy. She’s sexy, he finds her sexy. Fucking her was _good_— Though it left him feeling kind of _empty_. Even before he— _whatever he did_, at the end there. So what the fuck does that mean?

It’s all— yeah.

Once he’s finished his coffee he does his weights, piling on more again, wishing his body would _burn_ the way it should.

So many things to worry about.

So many things he can’t bear to think about.

So many—

_One at a fucking time_.

When he’s done he finds himself lounging against the kitchen cupboards, Gauloise between his lips, beer in hand. Yeah— Ok. _OK_.

Steve is a guy, right? It’s not like he’s got his head all turned around and misfiled the brunet as a chick— is it?

For a moment, just a moment, he lets himself think about Steve. Steve’s _body_. The things about Steve that make him want to—

And it’s legs and hair and teeth, but it’s also the span of those wide shoulders, those slinky little hips, a long neck that is also, undeniably, _masculine_— and more than that, more than the physicality of the guy— _Steve is not an object_— Steve is—

_Sweet_.

Sweet in a way that’s not about gender, is it? A _transcendent_ kind of sweetness.

So, does he want to fuck Steve _because_ he’s a guy or _despite _the fact he’s a guy?

While he’s contemplating this unpalatable question the phone rings. He almost lets it ring out but in the end decides to answer it because it means he can put off thinking too deeply for a moment.

It’s Adam.

After the greeting of, ‘Oh, so you are still alive. That’s good— Was worried you’d splattered yourself against a tree for a bit there when we woke up and both you and your car were gone,’ and him telling the guy to _fuck off_, feeling almost— not _fond_, but like he kind of doesn’t mind the dark-haired guy— Adam gets to the point.

Pool’s open. He can come in. Turns out it wasn’t Joey Mackinson shitting in it that broke the equipment. Instead it was an infestation of salamanders or something in the pipes. Adam doesn’t know for sure. _Fucking weird, man_.

Anyway. Yes. _Work_— a fucking _Godsend_.

He needs to pull himself together.

He makes sure to clean up real nice before heading to the pool— cleaning up around the edges of his facial hair where things are getting a bit fucked up from neglect, doing his hair as good as he’s ever done it, looking at the man he sees reflected back in the mirror—

_Did he always look that hard? That mad and unhappy?_

The scars seem like they’re a bit more prominent than the first time he saw them, but—

—

Before he leaves he rings Max, tells her he’s back at work and that he’ll be around to pick her up later. Maybe they could have pizza or something for dinner— his dad’s got a work dinner thing at his boss’s place— he thinks Susan said something about that— and he’s pretty sure that “the wife” was also invited so— probably the cause of the morning’s _tensions_.

Means him and Max will have the house to themselves.

What a fucking _relief_.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For internalised homophobia, homophobia in general, bi-erasure, panic attacks, mentions of child abuse, domestic violence, and child sexual abuse- please let me know if I missed any. 
> 
> Well, here we have a bit of unexpected productivity. Still from Billy's POV, as the plan is still to catch him up to Steve. I hope the fact that he can't stop thinking about Steve is some balm for the lack of actual Steve right now. Thank you all for reading, and for the comments and kudos, and I hope you're all doing well, and are all safe!

He swaggers into the pool like he owns the place, head up, shoulders back, smirk on his face— Eyes catching on all that bare flesh—

Adam heads over all big, straight, _white_ smile and says, ‘Yep. Salamanders or some shit. I don’t know. Like. I _know_ they’re amphibians and stuff— but, I do not know enough about them to be able to identify what _type_ they are and these ones look _weird_. So—’

‘Is there a point coming up soon?’ he sighs. Why the fuck the guy thinks he cares about _salamanders_ of all things is beyond him. Jesus.

A shrug. ‘I got here in time to get a couple of them—’

‘_Why?_ You one of those guys who keeps snakes as pets or something?’

‘Oh no, they’re _dead_,’ Adam replies. ‘Just thought my cousin might want to have a look at them. Try and identify them and dissect them or something—’ at his _look_ the guy hurries to add, ‘She’s not, like, _psycho_ or anything. She’s studying biology and zoology at Notre Dame. You want to see them?’

‘Not particularly,’ he replies, fishing out a Gauloise and offering the pack to Adam.

The guy shakes his head, waving off the offer. ‘Me and Brad are thinking of going drinking out by the quarry tonight, if you want to come—?’

He raises a brow, ‘This offer coming from a guy who felt the need to babysit me because of _one_ bottle of Jack Daniels.’

‘The fact that you can’t see the difference between a few drinks and chugging a whole bottle of Jack makes me worry about you, man,’ the guy says, only half joking.

He shrugs. Almost says _yes_ for a moment, but then he remembers _Max_, but— ‘I have to pick up my sister. Parents have got some— _thing _on, so we’re having pizza.’

Adam _looks_ at him for a moment. ‘How about _one_ beer after work?— and after I’ve dropped the dead salamanders off at home.’

‘Why the fuck do you want me to go drinking with you?' like, _what_? Why does Adam want him around? Most guys don’t like him— He eyes the dark-haired guy for a moment. He doesn’t think the guy wants to fuck him, but—?

Fuck. _Get it together Hargrove_. Not every guy is a faggot even though—

‘I’m bored and you are surprisingly entertaining,’ is what Adam says. ‘And, yeah, kind of a _jackass_, but nowhere near the jackass I thought you were considering the amount of time you’ve spent hanging out with Tommy H.’

He is _not_ thinking about that guy right now. If he thinks about Tommy he’ll start thinking about _Steve_ and then—

But he does kind of have to think about Steve, doesn’t he? Or at least about—

He shakes the thought off for long enough to agree to going out for _one_ drink— because, yeah, he really does need to spend time with Max, and then they go their separate ways— Adam to go looking for more dead salamanders or whatever it is the guy does when he’s not on the chair— which is where he’s headed.

Sitting up there, looking down on the increasing number of people, all of them in the skimpiest fucking swimsuits money can buy in Hawkins Indiana, and he gets to thinking—

A lot of things. But most relevant is that he can _look_, see if it’s more than just Steve, see if other guys get his motor revving, all while he’s got an excuse to be looking. He can look at the _girls_ too. The _women_. Because it’s all not sitting right, all not _coalescing_, wanting to fuck Steve but still so sure he likes fucking girls too.

It doesn’t make _sense_.

So, once he’s got himself comfortable in the chair, shades on, cigarette between his lips, he lets his gaze wander— trying to ignore how _exposed_ and weird and kind of _guilty_ it makes him feel. To start, because it’s easier, he checks out the girls—

Chelsea’s back with her itty bitty little white bikini and awkward forced sexiness— and she’s hot— though the observation is kind of ruined by the memory of the fucking horrible _noises_ she made with his dick in her mouth. There’s other girls he recognises from school too— some with Chelsea, some not, more than a few sending flirty little looks his way— and, yeah, there’s at least five of them he can imagine fucking, _wanting_ to fuck. Sexy each in their own way. Hot bodies, pretty faces— and the thought of what it would be like to go down on them, to push his fingers up into them, to slide between their thighs makes his dick throb a little in his shorts.

It’s _real_. He’s sure of it—

More sure of it when he spots Karen Wheeler— swimsuit cut high at the legs, hair shining blondish in the light, a little makeup on but not as much as she usually would if she expected to see him. Their eyes meet for a moment— and he can see she’s surprised, that this isn’t a display for him, this is her come to watch her little blonde kid paddling in the kiddie pool, not anything more— but then she looks away— and even though he doesn’t want her with the intensity he once did he still kind of _wants her_. Because, more than just a body, she’s a good person, nice and kind and sweet, and he _likes her_— and all that adds a weird kind of temptation to the business.

He’s never really thought about whether _liking_ someone made them more attractive before, but maybe it does—

Yeah.

Yeah. _It does_.

Best sex he’s ever had— other than with girls who were the kind of wild and experienced and capable of blowing his fucking brains out through his dick with little more than a _touch_— has always been with girls he’s also had fun hanging around with.

So maybe that’s all the Steve thing is. Maybe he’s just _confused. _For all he might protest, he never really has had many male friends. Yeah, _Jay_, but Jay was— well, _gross_— or, not necessarily gross, but— _Steve’s_ all clean and neat and well dressed and _polite_. Jay wasn’t exactly the kind of guy who’d bathe every day, or shave every day, or— It’s not that Steve’s _girly_, so much as—

Jay was a big, sweaty, stinky, vulgar, loud, rude, _guy_ kind of guy. The kind he usually hates. The kind who usually hates him. The only things they had in common were a love of drinking and smoking and _partying_ and really not liking seeing girls getting _hurt_ by big, mean, _nasty_ bastards like Jay’s stepfather.

Otherwise there were some guys he’d drink or party with, smoke weed with when he was in the mood— which was less often than it was for them— or _surf_ with. And the thought of being vulnerable in front of absolutely _any_ of them— the way he has been in front of Steve— makes him feel like punching something.

The thought of them being _sweet_ to him the way Steve is kind of gross. Yuck. Skin crawling kind of—

—

Except—

_What was his name again?_

There was a guy— not one he hang out with one on one that often, but a friend or a cousin of Matty who he used to surf with— another surfer— all long legs and smooth dark skin, hair in all these little braids— _Jeromy_—

Shit.

Oh fucking _hell_.

Because he was _looking _at Jeromy too, wasn’t he? Because he can remember the shape of legs and hips and neck and that slightly shy but also a bit _mischievous_ smile in a way he can’t even fucking remember the colour of Jay’s _eyes_ or what Matty looks like beyond tall and gawky and exactly like the kind of guy who smoked as much weed as he did.

—

And the thing is he and Jeromy didn’t exactly get on, did they? It was like every little thing the guy said or did got under his skin, felt like a _criticism_— Like with Steve at first.

Except he never _hurt_ Jeromy.

Just—

Snapped at him until the guy started avoiding him. Easy though, Jeromy wasn’t exactly— He was _sweet_ too. Calm. _Calmer_ than Steve even. Not the sort of guy who throws a punch unless it was the last possible option.

—

He tries to force his mind back to the here and now, but his thoughts keep tripping away from him. He really doesn’t want to be thinking about what it says about him that there’s maybe two guys he thinks he might have been attracted to, might have _liked,_ at some point— Steve he kind of _still_— and they’re two guys he treated—

_Not very well_.

That stuff, the _feelings stuff_, can wait. First he really has to work out if he’s—

_But how can he be a faggot if he likes girls?_

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuckitty fuck.

It all builds up in him, strangling him, his breath catching in his throat again— _fuck_. Ok. Breathe in. Breathe out. Etc. etc. Now, _keep breathing_, but keep breathing while also checking out the guys here at the pool.

_Does he find any of them hot?_

Not the fucking big old bastards, that’s for sure. All big hands and no fucks given about the way they look, hairy and stinky and _rough_, the kind of guys who’d be grabby and get off on getting the person they’re with _dirty_. Yeah. Yuck. Probably _hit him_ too— probably beat their wives and molest their kids. Yuck. Yuck. Yuck—

His skin is fucking _crawling_ just thinking about letting one of them touch him—

The faded little men seem a bit less— _gross_. The ones that were never really man enough. Beaten down husbands or guys who could never get a girl in the first place, some of them men whose wives are looking at _him_ right now, licking their lips and soaking their swimsuits at the thought of fucking someone a bit more _alive_ than the sad little mummified men they married. Those little men, all skinny and kind of awkward— they’re not so bad, but it’s still not—

_Hot_.

They look like they’d be about as much _fun_ as moving the lawn on a hot, windy day. A _chore_.

So. Guess he doesn’t have _that kind_ of daddy issues— Hah fucking hah-hah.

—

That’s something, at least.

He turns his attention to the guys he went to school with— not that many around, but a few. Mostly jocks but a couple of nerdy little dweebs.

Can he imagine kissing any of them, _touching_ them—?

**_Fucking them_**?

Ugh. It feels like a million eyes are on him right now, _burning into him_—

Fucking _uncomfortable_.

For a split second he tries to imagine sucking a dick— not even anyone _specific’s_ dick. Just a dick.

He almost launches himself out of the chair from the full body shudder of panic—

Ok. Ok.

_Calm the fuck down_.

Does that mean he isn’t interested, isn’t a faggot after all, or— ?

The thing is he can’t think about sucking a dick without all the fucking _filth_ he’s had hollered at him by old pervs running through his head and—

It feels _demeaning_. Some bastard shoving his _prick _into his—

—

And just _imagine_ what fucking _Neil _would say. Do.

The man would fucking _kill him_.

—

Shit.

_Fuck_.

_Jesus fucking **Christ**_.

He forces himself to breathe, to release the grip he has on the arm of the chair when it starts to _creak_ like he’s gonna break it—

—

Ok.

So maybe thinking about sucking dick is a bit too much. Going a bit too fast. Pushing it all too far.

_What about just kissing?_

Could he kiss a guy?

His mind goes straight to Steve’s pretty coral lips, always looking so _soft_, like the guy uses chapstick or something—

_Yeah_. He could kiss Steve—

Fuck.

More importantly, _could he kiss a guy not Steve?_

His eyes rove over the potato faced jocks, their well tended bodies, all those _muscles_— and that flinch of— of— _Don’t you fucking look down on me_— bursts through him again, but he pushes it down.

Maybe.

Most of them aren’t that hot though— _Adam’s_ probably the best looking of all of them— his glance flicks over to the dark haired guy, walking past on fuck knows errand all bare chested and little red shorts. _Could he kiss Adam_?

He waits for disgust. Doesn’t really come. Waits for _desire_. Doesn’t come either.

So, yeah, he could probably kiss Adam but also he doesn’t really want to.

_Who does he want to kiss_?

Forget the fucking jocks, forget— forget— Just fucking imagine it’s a world where you can kiss who you want and it says nothing about you—

Karen, yeah. Some of those girls he sees— his eye catches on a slender, broad shouldered body. A good looking young guy a few years older than him— college student home for the summer maybe— at the pool with what look like younger siblings and their friends— and he doesn’t even look pissy about it. Laughing good naturedly at something a kid that looks a hell of a lot like a younger him is saying—

From this far away he can’t tell what colour the guy’s eyes are, but he thinks they might be blue. Blue eyes. Auburn hair. _Sweet_ smile— looking at those kids he’s with like he would never _dream_ of breaking a nose or a jaw or anything— and he really is good looking too— in a kind of clean shaven, neat hair, all _preppy_ way— all long legs and long torso and—

A moment later a girl the guy’s age— and that is not a _Hawkins_ girl—if anything she looks like she’s from Miami or something— trots over with arms full of Pepsi cans, handing them out to the kids, before playing keep away for a moment with the guy— who eventually catches her wrist and pulls her in to extract both the drink and a kiss to the accompaniment of the whines of the kids with them—

He clears his throat, looks away.

Yeah. He could probably kiss that guy.

_Fuck_.

Ok.

Fuck it.

He’s pretty sure he can now say that he probably does like guys. _Some _guys. Not just, like _every_ guy. It’s not like he’s been waltzing through life as an oblivious dick seeking missile— just _some_ guys.

Just—

_He’d still rather kiss **Steve**_.

So.

Yeah.

Seems like maybe he’s kind of a faggot, but—

The shape of her body catches his eye as Karen stands up from where she was leaning down near the kiddie pool, picking up that little blonde girl of hers and walking back over to the lounges—

_Why can’t this shit be **simple**_?

He can’t bear thinking about it anymore, so he tries not to. Goes about his day on autopilot, trying to keep his eyes off both the guys and girls. Karen. _Everyone_.

—


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For domestic violence, child abuse, and homophobic language, please let me know if I missed any.
> 
> New chapter, yay-ish. Yeah, we're still with Billy, yeah there's no Steve, honestly at this point I don't blame those of you that are jumping ship for jumping ship. I promise they will get together eventually, but promises are only words, right? I did write a (possibly) one-shot Billy/Steve fic which is the opposite of this absolute slow burn. It's [Flashfire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24177088) if you're interested. Anyway. Thank you all so much to those who are still here, still sticking with this mass of delayed satisfaction masquerading as a fic, it means so much to me. Thanks especially for the comments and the kudos. Above all though I hope you're safe and well!

If he thought having _one_ drink with Brad and Adam after work was going to be particularly interesting, he was wrong. They don’t say much worth listening to when they park out near the quarry and stare at the water. Adam talks about their day at the pool, and the fucking _salamanders—_ and don’t they just sound fucking _gross_— Brad starts going on about playing basketball professionally, he drinks his beer and smokes his Gauloises.

Still. At the end there’s something like a suggestion that they’ll do it again sometime. Weird.

Weird but not _weird_. Like. He’s pretty sure neither of those guys has any ulterior motivation other than wanting a distraction from boredom, which he can put up with, since they don’t seem to want him to play jester or anything. Just show up. Drink. Be himself.

It’s the weirdest kind of relief to see Max, and even with— _everything_— he finds himself smiling like an idiot when she climbs into the car complaining loudly about Mike hanging around all the time when she wants to spend time with El and Will. At least by the time she’s actually paying attention to him instead of staring out the car window and waving goodbye at the kids in question he’s managed to get his face under control so he looks less like an idiot.

He tries to keep at least half his attention on her endless rambling, but his mind keeps skittering away to places he doesn’t want it to right now, places he won’t let himself think too much about when what he wants is some— oh fuck him dead— _family time_. So. Mainly he thinks he’s coming off about as distracted as he’s feeling.

Every now and then he catches her _looking_ at him, but she says nothing and he says nothing so neither of them end up saying anything about it all the way through pizza and TV— and for a minute he almost wishes she wanted to watch some of her stupid nerd shit— but apparently she’s moved onto shows starring boys she thinks are hot so—

Yeah.

Also distracting. Not wanting to but ending up looking at legs and shoulders and arms and waists and backs and necks and faces and being unable not to think _would I_?

And sometimes the answer is something like _yes_, even though reassuringly it’s quite often _no_.

Then. Right in the middle of him quietly freaking out and Max going on about which guy is hotter, fucking _Neil_ storms in, Susan on his heels. She seems to be trying to reason with him but the old bastard is ignoring her.

He feels Max tense up on the couch next to him— just like _he’s_ frozen. Watching. Waiting to see what Neil will do.

The man seems to finally register their presence, _sneering_ at the two of them, absolute and undeniable _hate_ in his eyes— before continuing his flounce towards their parents’ bedroom.

Susan makes a kind of helpless little noise, looking at them like— and he doesn’t know what that expression means. It’s not a _good_ expression, he knows that. ‘Ah—’ she breathes, then composes herself. ‘Do you two need anything before I go to bed?’

He glances at Max, back at Susan, wonders if he should ask if everything ok, wonders if asking that will call the whole shitshow down on his own head, wonders—

‘No mom, Billy’s got it covered,’ Max answers while he’s still wondering.

‘Oh, well, _goodnight_,’ she says with a staccato little wave.

Well.

_Fuck_.

That’s the night ruined— not that it wasn’t already— whatever it was. But. _Yeah_.

Not long after that he and Max give up on pretending they can go back to watching TV when Neil’s gone to bed and is probably lying there fuming about the noise they’re making, just waiting to snap and come storming out.

She says she’s going to go read some nerd book he’s never heard of, and he’s— Shit. He does not feel like reading. He does not feel like doing anything—

Over the years having to retreat to his room at night in— _concern_— Neil might be _Neil_ about something meant it was a good time to jerk off. Unless the guy was already shouting or letting him know he was _in trouble_. But if Neil was just in a sulk and didn’t seem liable to come storming in to try and knock his block off until at least _after_ he was asleep then, you know, _Max_ would be in bed. Susan would be wherever it is Susan is when she’s not in front of him. Neil would be— probably drinking and lying to himself that he’s not a fucking loser and a monster. So—

Except, yeah, he does not trust his hands on his dick right now— Well. Not his _hands_. Where his _mind_ might go if he tries to jack it—

It’s gotta be enough for one day for a guy to admit to himself he sometimes wants to kiss other guys. Being faced with the idea he sometimes jerks off thinking about them too is just—

Though. _Does he_?

_Of fucking course he does_. What was that shit in Steve’s shower if not—

Except it’s not just _guys_ is it? Not males of the species in general. Recently it’s been—

Seriously. Who was he kidding? Fucking _brown eyed brunettes with long legs and shit_—

That whole _thing_ with Chelsea just because he saw Steve in a swimsuit and got a bit _excitable_.

Yeah, well he knew at the time it was a bit— _off_. So. So—

So he sleeps badly, and wakes in the dark to half remembered dreams and the sense that he’s gotta be somewhere, that he’s slacking off, not keeping _him _safe— with a _presence_ in his room. His breath catches, his nostrils flare like he can scent whoever it is, but then his ears catch on the familiar sound of shaky breaths.

‘Max?’

A sob answers him and the next thing he knows she’s climbing into bed with him. ‘Jesus, I could have my dick out,’ he half grumbles as he moves over for her to bury her face against his chest. This is new. Comfort’s usually confined to the lounge room, but he can feel how much she’s shaking, can guess how bad the dream was. ‘Want to talk about it?’ he asks, petting her hair gently.

She shakes her head, huddling against him.

Shit.

He can feel tears soaking into the muscle t he wore to bed, but she’s not sobbing or anything. Just completely quiet as she trembles and cries and he _hates_ it all of a sudden. If Max wants to sob her fucking eyes out she should be able to. The spectre of Neil shouldn’t be hanging over her head like it is.

Stupid fucking _Susan_. Why did she have to get involved with a man like his dad? Even if it meant he and Max never met it would have been so much _better _for her if her mom had got with someone else, someone _kind_— or stayed with Max’s dad. The man never seemed _cruel_ and Susan didn’t leave him for hitting her or anything, as far as he knows. The guy just— he had an affair. Just the one. Surely a guy who might cheat on you every now and then is better than a guy who might break your face?

Eventually Max stops crying. ‘Sorry,’ she says, all thick and phlegmy. ‘Maybe I didn’t scream this time or maybe you didn’t hear me, but you weren’t in the lounge room, so—’

‘It’s fine kid,’ he says, voice soft. Fuck. He’s feeling all fucking _paternal_ or something. This town, man. This town.

It’s changed things so fucking much.

She makes a little, sort of _panicked _sound and blurts out, ‘I like you so much more _now_ than the way you used to be, please don’t turn back into old Billy, ok? Ok, Billy? Don’t turn back into old Billy and don’t _die_! Promise me you won’t die!’

‘I’m not going to die,’ he says, and maybe there’s a tinge of bitterness there, because he has no fucking clue if he _can_ even die, but she doesn’t need to know that. ‘I’m not going to die and I’m not going to turn back into the prick I was before, I fucking _promise_.’

‘Good. You have to keep it though, you have to—’ She cries for a bit after that, every now and then mumbling something about him not dying or acting like he used to, before she calms down and eventually starts to drowse. He lies there, Max huddled against him— and it’s weird, isn’t it? People touch him these days. Max— _Steve_.

His mom used to, he thinks. Ruffle his hair, push it back out of his face, pet him on the shoulder, hug him— and when she was gone Uncle Harry would pet him on the back or on the top of the head and call him a _good kid_, before— But _since_. The most body to body contact he’s had in years was _fucking_—

And basketball. But not usually. That level of— _whatever it was_— that was because of Steve, wasn’t it?

Yeah.

Fuck.

In the dark, listening to Max’s wheezy little snores, he lets himself remember the first time he saw the brunet. It wasn’t at that party, where Steve looked right through him, face like he was sucking on a lemon— It was a couple days after they came to town, him speeding down the main street, pulling up at a red light, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, eyes roving the shit-hole fucking Neil had condemned them to— and there was this brunet, walking down the sidewalk chatting to a girl— fucking _Wheeler_, he now knows— and the brunet was— _eye catching_, and something almost like happy, smiling, looking at the girl like she was the centre of his world—

In those moments before the light turned green and he sped off he’d felt _something_. Something like an urge to storm out of his car and wipe that innocent smile off that— _pretty_, he’ll admit it now. Steve is _pretty_— pretty face. Make that seemingly carefree guy feel the way he felt. Make him— Make those eyes— and Steve had been far enough away he hadn’t even been able to see they were that lovely, velvety brown— make them turn to him. Just for a moment. He’d wanted to be acknowledged, to be _seen_, by that good looking, slender young _man_—

_Fuck_.

And then then everything else happened all leading up to the night he almost _killed_ Steve and then—

Now he’s here, in the dark, feeling like a damn _fool_.

Another thought creeps in. One he thinks maybe he wants even less than any of the others. _Is Steve actually a fag or is that all just wishful thinking?_

Is it just _him_, while Steve himself—

Yeah.

That is _not_ a thought he wants to be having right now.

Or _ever_.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: for themes of domestic violence and child abuse, homophobia, biphobia and erasure, please let me know if I missed any.
> 
> More Billy, more Billy making progress, yay! Still no actual Steve I'm afraid. Thank you all so much for sticking with this fic, and for the comments and kudos! I hope you're all staying well and safe out there!

Good Goddamn thing Neil and Susan go off to work before he has to, because he wakes— still where he went to sleep for once _thank fuck_— to the sound of the front door slamming and realises Max is still in here with him. That would—

He can just _imagine_ how his dad would react to that. It would not be good. Yeah.

He prods her awake once he’s sure neither of their parents are about to show up and start shouting. ‘Hey, Maxine. Time to wake up— I’ve gotta get to the pool.’

She makes an obnoxious whining noise, manages to stretch and smack him in the face, and while he’s reeling from that sits up to wipe at the drool running down her face and blink at him blearily.

Wow.

Ok. He has not seen Max first thing after waking up before and— He starts snickering. Can’t help it. She looks so— _stupid_. Red hair escaped from the braid she had it in to stand up all around her head like she’s been electrocuted, then there’s the drool, then there’s the look of almost _bovine _incomprehension—

‘What?’ she snaps. ‘Jesus, _what?_’

‘Looking like a badass there, Mad Max,’ he manages between snickers, dodging her when she starts swatting at him.

By the time he’s dropped her off at the Wheeler house for the day he’s decided that he’s not going to think about any of his recent unpleasant revelations. Not, like, _permanently_, but just not today— maybe not tomorrow either. He needs time or something to wrap his mind around it all.

It’s hard, because apparently what his mind actually wants to do is pick at it all like he’s trying to pick the world’s biggest, _nastiest_ scab, but if he focuses on work it’s a bit easier. So, yeah, maybe he’s even snappier than usual at the dumb fucking kids and the dumb fucking things they do out of what seems a compulsive need to crack their skulls open or drown themselves, but he doubts anyone really notices.

And it’s all— it’s. Something. Ok.

He works hard, signs himself up for more hours so he’s got something to keep his mind occupied, chats with Adam, picks up Max— who has apparently had a fight with Wheeler Jr, or some shit, about something that sounds really, _really_ stupid— and they’re both home in time for dinner and the unpleasant revelation that Neil is also home for dinner. For once.

The man’s been— _elsewhere_— a whole lot lately.

It’s— One of the most tense dinners he’s ever had, and that’s saying something. Neil is— _quiet_. But not still or calm or any kind of quiet other than _a towering inferno of wrath barely containing itself_ quiet. Also still ignoring him. Susan looks _terrified_. And by the end of it Max is chattering nervously pretty much to herself with her chair pressed as close to his side as she can get it.

He— He’s _tired_ of this shit.

He almost wants to pick the fight he can feel coming on the horizon to get it over with.

Jesus.

After they’ve eaten his dad storms away from the table— chair falling over when he pushes it back in too violently— and disappears into the bedroom. Susan barely relaxes.

She comes to sit with them and watch the TV for a bit— which strongly biases the business to shows with hot guys— _No. Not looking. Not this time_— while he smokes and Max still remains pressed to his side.

She’s _frightened_, even if she would never admit it. _Pisses him off_.

If only she was old enough, that way they could both get out of here. He could get an apartment or something, she could— Well. She needs to finish school and once she’s finished school—

Fuck. Does Susan even have a college fund started for Max? No way he can afford it— What about her dad? Goddammit. She’s _smart_. She deserves better to get stuck in Hawkins forever.

It’s later, after he’s done his weights, after he’s flicked through a skin mag and seen sexy girls and weirdly missed _Steve_, that it occurs to him that Neil would be well within his rights to chuck him out of the house. And, yeah, wind back all those months to when they first moved here and he’d planned to just pack up back to Cali the moment he was eighteen, or had enough money, or— But he’s been eighteen a while now, had enough money probably even back then— though the shit with his car— and the way he’s been drinking and smoking recently have been eating into his savings— and—

He does not want to leave Hawkins.

Don’t get him wrong, he _hates_ this shithole town. _Hates it_. But no way is he leaving Max, not with Neil, and— and—

Ok. Not thinking about Steve.

But, other than— _that_— Well. Fuck everything but he thinks maybe he’s kind of started to settle in now. Become _habituated_ to the place.

—

Fucking _weird_.

—

Anyway. Moving out would probably be better than waiting for Neil to finally blow his top— but that means leaving Max here with the old bastard. Not something he wants. At all. Seriously, _no fucking way_ is he leaving Max without him around in case the old man—

Should he start looking for a place anyway?— No. Not yet. No— What he should do is start trying to save up some cash in case he has to. If it comes to it surely he can find somewhere nearby— and Neil and Susan are hardly home, so Max could come around whenever anyway, and—

Jesus.

_Fuck_.

Good thing he already signed himself up for so many hours at the pool. Yeah. He must have been _prescient_ or something.

The middle of the night has him and Max huddling on the couch again until she feels she can sleep— Will this time. Possessed by the Mind Flayer and killing them all, tears rolling down his face— and fuck does she have a good imagination— and he’s just thinking maybe all that— weirdness— with him sleepwalking must be over.

And then he wakes up in the forest behind Steve’s house again.

—

At least it’s early enough he can get back home before Max misses him.

So, yeah, maybe he’s kind of _snappish_ at pretty much everyone. Even Max— though he tries to rein it in. But.

But he is losing his fucking _mind_.

How else can he explain the— the _thing_ where he wakes up behind Steve’s house all the fucking time. And he knows, just _knows_, he wasn’t good old regular _human shaped_ Billy when he was making his way there. Jesus _fuck_.

It’s the dreams, it has to be, but he can barely remember them when he wakes up. Just a sense of— It’s the Upside Down. It’s—

Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? After everything that happened.

That he ended up kind of—

_Fucked up_.

So, yeah. There’s that, on top of—

_Everything else_.

It’s just— He has no fucking clue what to do, _at all_, about _any of it_. So. So—

Yeah. Ignore the sleepwalking or whatever part as much as possible and try to, you know, _cope_ with the other stuff.

Fuck. The _other stuff_.

It’s just. Just. A _fucking horrible day_. That’s all.

At least Neil’s gone for dinner, off at yet another work thing. Susan making noise about him getting a promotion soon with eyes that say how much she no longer believes the shit her husband’s spouting.

All three of them end up in front of the TV again— even though it’s Friday night and he could be at a party, would be getting his dick wet, could be doing all kinds of things—

Max makes noise about them doing something with Steve and her shitty friends the next day, but he tells her he’s working. He’s always working— or at least that’s the plan. Working or working out, sometimes eating. Trying not to waste his cash on cigarettes and booze— and it’s hard to cut down on the smokes. Fuck is it hard.

It’s all—

_So hard_.

Fucking hell he feels about as miserable as he did when they first moved to this shithole town. Jesus.

That night he tries barricading himself in his room— weights in front of the door, window locked— and then he tells himself he isn’t going to sleep. Is going to stay up all night, is going to—

He wakes up behind Steve’s fucking house a-fucking-gain.

Jesus fucking _Christ_.

By the time he’s run back home he’s on edge, really _on edge_, and even the way Max seems well rested and eager to tell him all about the way she slept through— no bad dreams for once— barely dents the—

Is it rage?

Fuck knows.

Whatever it is it’s so hard to just drive her to the Byers house _fast_ instead of _stupidly fast_. And then— Well. He _almost_ doesn’t go in to work. Almost just keeps driving— does in fact drive out just past the edge of town before he stops himself, turns back. Shit.

Fucking—

Yeah. Ok. He drops by the 7-11, buys more smokes from the bored looking and less interesting than _Candy_ girl behind the counter for once— ignoring her flirting— then.

To the pool.

Where he smokes and seethes and even all the girlies usually so eager to attract his attention seem to want to avoid him.

‘Shit man, you are _tense_,’ Adam says mid-afternoon. When he’s pretty much given up any pretence of actually working and is huddling in the shade chain-smoking. ‘Anything I can help with?’

‘Fuck off Adam.’

‘Party at Brad’s?’ the guy offers.

‘Are no one’s parents ever fucking home in this shithole town?’ he snaps. How many fucking parties can one guy throw? Fucking— Brad. Tommy H— _asshole_— and he’s heard St— _Steve_ used to throw them all the time back in the day.

‘Not if they’ve got the money and time to be _elsewhere_ all summer,’ Adam replies with a shrug. ‘So, you up for it?’

‘Jesus. _Fine_. Fuck. I’ll see if my sister can stay with her friend.’

‘She can’t stay home?’ Adam asks, and he can see something clever and _assessing_ in those grey eyes.

He stares back, expression flat, until Adam looks away. No way is he explaining fucking _Neil_ to the guy. He’s not here begging for _pity_.

Of course it takes forever and trying all the kids’ fucking numbers at least once to get a hold of her, but then she’s telling him she was going to ring and ask if she could stay at the Byers’ again anyway, so— Whatever.

The thought of the party doesn’t make him feel any better— yeah, the thought of getting absolutely fucking _wasted_ on someone else’s dime sounds good— but what’s there for him at a party? He hates, like, 99.99999999999% of the shitty music people like _Brad_ like. He also hates, like, 99.999999999999—whatever% of the people in this town. And he doesn’t even want to go out and get his dick wet.

He can’t even be bothered with the usual date night kinda prep, instead sticking to jeans and a white t-shirt— realising halfway to the party that he’s wearing the exact same fucking clothes he wore when he went to talk to Steve about the Upside Down the first time. His _nice guy_ clothes.

He misses Steve.

He doesn’t want to miss Steve.

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Whatever he thought was going to happen at the party it probably wasn’t chatting to Adam for a moment— before some girl he thinks maybe he’s slept with drags the guy away— then skulking around until Amy spots him, drags him onto the dance floor, then the two of them spend most of the rest of the night sharing a bottle of bourbon and smoking while she makes amusingly _vicious_ comments about everyone passing by, Brad seeming to be always lurking somewhere nearby, watching them with a real fucking _weird_ expression. Dark and hot and he’d think _jealous_, but jealousy doesn’t quite fit, and when he asks Amy what the guy’s problem is she replies “_ignore him, he’s enjoying himself_,” and he’s thinking _what the fuck_? But at the same time he _does not care_.

It’s— _funny_. Hanging out with her is not like hanging out with— with— yeah, ok, _Steve_— fuck does he miss Steve— but at the same time it’s kind of like back in Cali and the group he’d go out with, party with, drink with, shoot the shit with. Relaxed. Not— _close_— but not making him want to punch someone.

And there’s something to that kind of bubble effect when it’s two people against the world. Not that he and Amy are— but he can’t deny that he’s nodding along with pretty much every cruel and entirely too ugly-accurate statement she’s making about everyone else.

Maybe it’s just there’s something almost like _safety_ when you’re with others more like you than most. Anyway.

Fuck.

Ok.

Admitting it is embarrassing, fucking _humiliating_, but he feels cocooned enough in the moment that he lets himself _look_. At the party. Eye level with everyone else instead of up in the chair. At— just, _everyone else_.

Imagining what it would be like— no labels— but if he could just—

Go up to whoever. Guy. Girl. Either. Whatever. Anyone he glanced at and thought— _yeah, **you**_. Just for the night. Maybe just for a _dance_. Maybe for _more_—

Looking at bodies and seeing bodies— girl bodies and guy bodies— and thinking _hot_.

Hot.

And by the time he’s piling into his car to drive home he’s pretty much been forced to accept that he is attracted to _both_.

And _both_ means—

He does his weights before bed, not thinking about it for a moment, then washes his face and brushes his teeth and has a piss and climbs between his sheets and—

Both is _bisexual_, isn’t it?

He can remember Max explaining it to El.

Which isn’t to say he’s never heard of bisexuals, of course he’s heard of bisexuals, but he’s never given it much thought as an option. Always thought— like she said people think— that they were just faggots in denial. Or maybe just degenerates out to fuck whoever would let them. Or even sometimes— when he’d been feeling a bit more generous— wondered _why_, if a guy likes _girls_ as well as guys, he’d want all the trouble that comes with going after _guys_.

_Hah_.

Fucking hell.

But he is, isn’t he?

Now he’s actually faced it instead of ignoring it. Because that’s the only thing that makes sense.

He is _bisexual_.

Has probably always been bisexual and just gone about his life _ignoring_ it or something.

_So what’s he going to do about it_?


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: for domestic violence and child abuse, please let me know if I missed any.
> 
> Here we are with Billy again and his degenerating family life. Still no Steve. So sorry. I'm not sure when I'll be able to get the next chapter out. It will probably not be before the end of next week as I'll be a bit busy. Thank you all for sticking with this story, and for the comments and kudos! I hope you all are well and safe in this sad, worrisome world.

Of fucking course he wakes up behind Steve’s house again.

As he begins the run back he can’t help admitting that he’s not exactly doing much to _avoid_ waking up here. He’s still going to bed each night, still sleeping, hasn’t tried to chain himself to the bed or anything—

It’s _weird_, yeah. Skittering his way across town in his sleep, probably in his— _other_— form, but— but.

He _misses_ Steve.

He misses Steve but he can’t bring himself to face the brunet. So. In a warped kind of way. _This_ shit makes him feel just a little bit—

_Closer_ to the guy.

It would be different if his other form had ever shown any intent to _hurt_ the brunet, but honestly, _instinctively_, he feels more like it, _he_, would do anything in his power to keep Steve _safe_.

He’s gotta keep Steve safe.

Yeah—

Even from himse—

Fuck. Ok. Thoughts there he’s not gonna pursue right now.

This has all gotten so routine by now that his guard’s down. He’s not really thinking about anything as he lets himself in to the house— maybe doing his weights again before a shower, heading to the pool—

And then there’s fucking _Neil_ waiting for him, eyes dark with outright _hate_. For a moment he can see the man struggling with the urge to take a swing— but his dad fights it down to throw a tantrum instead. Going on about where he and Max always are, why they’re always out— insinuating they’re both out _slutting around_, that he’ll get some girl pregnant and Max’ll come home with a inbred hick _bastard_ in her belly— and _he_ almost takes a swing himself at that— and that from now on that’s _it_. Enforced fucking _family time_.

He’s then sent out— still in last night’s clothes, stinking of sweat and smoke and bourbon, fucking _great_— to fetch Max from the Byers.

So, looks like his dad is over ignoring him.

_Fuck_.

Mrs Byers— who, honestly, seems like a real nice lady. A nice lady who he’d bet has had a pretty fucking _hard time _in life— greets him looking all concerned. He doesn’t try to flirt— never has with her. There’s _hot mom_ and then there’s— and it’s not that she’s not a looker, she is, in her way, it’s just that hitting on her seems kind of— _sacrilegious_. She’s too much a _Mom_ mom.

Her momness is too inherent to her and he’s not—

Well, he’s fucked up, but he’s not fucked up like _that_. Any more than he has those kind of daddy issues.

Also, you know, he’s pretty sure Chief Hopper would kill him and bury him out in the woods. So, there’s that.

The guy in question comes to the door and _looks_ at him. ‘Everything ok, ki—?’ and at least the man swallows the end of the “kid” this time. Still pisses him off though. The Chief clears his throat. ‘Everything ok— um— _young man_?’

That is not better.

‘I’m sorry, when Max asked if she could spend the night I totally forgot we have plans today with the family. _My fault_,’ he replies, trying to look like he’s not lying through his teeth.

They seem to buy it.

He thinks.

_Maybe_.

Ok, yeah, he catches the Chief looking at him out the front window as he and Max head back to the car. So— There’s fuck all he can do about it.

‘Neil’s being a dick,’ is what he tells her when she piles into his baby, whining at him about not remembering any _“family shit”_ they had to do.

‘Oh.’

_Oh_ indeed. Worst is that he still has to go in to the pool, which means leaving her with his dad— and _Susan_, of course, but Susan hardly counts these days, does she?

He hates it.

_Hates it_.

He lingers after his shower, keeping an eye on his dad— planted in front of the TV watching his stupid war movies— for as long as he can, worried the man will snap and go marching off to Max’s room to beat the shit out of her or something.

He’s gotta make it clear to the guy that he can’t touch Max, that there’ll be _consequences_— but even if Neil is wary of _him_ right now he very much doubts the man will take him threatening to rip the guy’s head off if he ever hurts Max seriously—

—

_Chief Hopper_.

—

His dad’s— whatever his dad is— but the man’s not _that_ stupid.

Max is El’s best friend. El’s dad is—

He determines to mention the Chief as much as possible in front of Neil. Go on and on and on about how close Max and El are and how upset El would be if something ever happened to Max and how much the Chief— and he’ll make sure to mention exactly how _huge_ and tough as hell the man looks— loves his daughter and isn’t going to take anything upsetting her kindly. Maybe play into some of those small-town pig stereotypes.

Maybe mention how well the Chief knows the woods.

Neil would have _no chance_ if it came down to a fight between him and Chief Hopper. The cop’s hands are, like, the size of his dad’s _head_.

—

Maybe. Just— _maybe_— if things go south the Chief wouldn’t take his old man’s side. It’s not like the few times they’ve spoken’s enough to really get to know the man— and he is still a small-town, hick, _cop_— but so far he hasn’t got a sense that the man’s— _Neil’s_ type of guy.

More the type of guy to look at his dad and see the _pissant_ the man actually is.

_Maybe_.

—

Eventually he has to concede defeat and go in to the pool— and if he was in a bad mood the day before it’s got nothing on the mood he’s in today. He must be putting out such _lethal_ vibes that even _Adam_ gives up on trying to talk to him after one good, solid glare.

You’d think being left alone would make him feel better.

It doesn’t make him feel better.

He skips out on work as early as he can— not his usual modus operandi, you know, he does _try_ to take work as seriously as he can— just to rush home and discover Neil’s apparently fucked off at some point during the day.

It’d be a relief, but it’s a real fucking _scorcher_, hot as balls, and there’s Susan looking all kinds of pale and wan and wearing a long sleeved blouse— left hand lingering on her right wrist, doing her best to avoid using that hand too much.

She looks at him, eyes wide and kind of desperate and the whole night— through dinner and shitty TV and Max’s happy enough chatter— it’s like the woman is begging him not to say anything. Not to tell her daughter.

Jesus fucking _Christ_.

—

Neil doesn’t come home that night.

Neil still isn’t home the next morning, everyone creeping around, shoulders up, tense, waiting for the old bastard to come and ruin everything.

But the man’s still not home that night, or the next morning when he gets home from the woods behind Steve’s— but just when he’s started thinking his dad’s skipped town he comes home from the pool on Tuesday night to find Neil— all dressed up in his good suit, Susan in one of her good dresses, and _Max_, Max home when he didn’t know she was home, Max stuffed into a frilly, lacy thing he didn’t even know she owned— the kind of pink that clashes with her hair— _scowl _on her face, and the news that the three of them are going out to a nice, fancy, _family_ dinner to celebrate his dad’s new promotion. A dinner to which he is pointedly _not invited_.

It’s—

Yeah. Well.

Apparently being home, _alone_, Max off somewhere with fucking Neil and Susan, no Goddamn distractions from that— or from all the other— _stuff_— is just too fucking _much_.

He tries to keep his mind blank. Does his weights— adding more, yet _again_— and he’s going to have to do something about that, because that’s all he has, he can’t add any more, and it’s _way too easy _to lift as if is— then having a shower, then sitting down to watch the TV— but he can’t. He can’t calm down. He—

So then he’s pacing, back and forth, back and forth, feeling like he’s going _nuts_, and then—

It starts with a beer from the fridge, but he doesn’t even feel it, and he’s been good, hasn’t wasted any of his cash on booze, but he fucking _needs_ to calm the fuck down before he does something stupid.

Stupid like drive into town and drag Max to safety out of whatever fancy fucking restaurant Neil’s got her in— _Enzo’s_, he’d just bet— or— or—

Drive around Steve’s, see if the guy will let him in. Not to— Of course, because Steve’s probably not even— not— but—

But.

Steve makes him feel _calmer_.

Kind of.

_Thinking_ about Steve sure as hell doesn’t recently, but _being with _Steve—

—

What he needs is some bourbon. A bottle, maybe two— then he can sit his ass down in front of the TV, drink himself into a semi-stupor, and maybe fucking _relax_ for a minute.

Yeah, he knows he’s kidding himself.

Doesn’t stop him getting in the car and heading to the liquor store though. Cheap. _Cheap_ bourbon— Fuck. He’s going to have _no_ money if he has to move out the way things are going, and with summer starting to wind down the pool won’t need anywhere near the staff it has now.

Funny, isn’t it. In a few months’ time the whole town will change. All the parties held by kids in his grade that are going to be off at college will stop— the kids themselves will leave— and then it’ll just be him and Steve and the other poor losers being left behind. The kids a year behind will become the kings and the queens, the ones holding the parties— and maybe most guys in his position would latch on to them, try and act like their glory days aren’t fading to nothing trapped in their small, _irrelevant_, town, but him—

_What the fuck is he going to do if he doesn’t fuck off back to Cali?_

—

Yardwork, that’s right. Or some shit. _Billy Hargrove, small town Handyman_. No way is he getting a job at the Big Buy or something— he is not cut out for _customer service_. It’d all end with him losing his shit and shouting at someone.

He’s trying to work out what’s the cheapest— but still drinkable— bourbon in stock— not that there’s much around with all the fucking _parties_, Jesus— when the chatter of familiar voices makes him look up from his bottom shelf perusal. Adam and fucking _Brad_, heading straight for the beer.

‘Oh my God, you guys are _not_ throwing another party?’ he blurts out when the two come to a surprised stop at seeing him.

‘What?’ Adam blinks. ‘Oh. No man. We’re going out to drink a few by the quarry and listen to Brad’s shitty music—’ a slight pause. ‘Want to come?’

Why the fuck not? It has to be better than being at home, worrying about Max, trying not to think too much— And, yeah, he’s going to have to think about the whole _bisexual_ thing at some point. Soon probably. But soon doesn’t have to mean _now_.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: for homophobia, and not just homophobic language or internalised homophobia(though they're here too), but that unpleasant experience of homophobia from someone who might otherwise be a decent human being. Also self destructive thoughts and a touch of suicidal ideation, as well as references to domestic violence and child abuse, as well as an oblique one to racism. 
> 
> I feel like there're so many things I could say here, but all of them sound trite. The world is a depressing place, yet I sincerely hope this time there will be change that lasts, and a fairer society for all of us and for the future. I hope you all stay safe out there! Anyway, on to the depressing chapter. Thank you all for reading, and for the comments and the kudos!

Later, lounging against the hood of his baby, half a bottle of bourbon down, a haze of Gauloise smoke hanging around him in the thick, hot, _still_ night air, Brad’s honestly, _undeniably_ shitty, mindless pop songs blaring from the speakers of Adam’s Mercedes, Adam babbling on about how interesting his cousin apparently finds the fucking _salamanders_ he got her he does, kind of, regret it. But—

—

‘No one’s seen you and Harrington together for ages now— Thought you were friends— at least that’s what everyone’s saying. Did he actually, really do something to piss _you _off too—?’ Brad says out of nowhere.

He blinks, looks up— gaze flickering to the ash on the tip of his cigarette. Shit. Must have zoned out. _Wait, **what**_—?

‘Of course not!’ he snaps.

‘Come on, _leave it_,’ Adam says to his friend, shoulder bumping him.

‘Like, I know he’s—’ Brad begins, but Adam keeps bumping at him until he whirls on the guy. ‘Am I saying something? No I’m fucking not, ok? I’m just saying it’s ok if Hargrove here finds Steve weird. You know. He’s really not _all that_—’

He doesn’t expect it. That’s the thing. Everyone— or at least everyone _not_ Tommy H or that bitch Carol— are always all _Steve’s a good guy_ if it comes up. Even if they’ve been _real_ assholes to the poor guy—

So, this big, potato-faced jock acting like hanging out with Steve would ever be something but a fucking _privilege _startles him for a moment, and once that moment’s over— He’s maybe, probably, yeah, _probably_ going to hit the guy. It’s something for his self-control that he doesn’t for long enough for Adam to start correcting his friend, the end result being, ‘Steve’s a _good guy_,’ Adam snaps, and, ‘You really need to— just— _fuck_. Get over it, Jesus.’

‘Get over _what_?’ he hisses, eying the two of them. He still wants to hit Brad, but that would be a bit— _weird_ now, wouldn’t it?

Why is he even worrying if it’s weird?

When has he even _cared_?

Jesus Christ he’s losing it.

Brad’s mouth opens, shuts, then the guy glances a little helplessly at Adam— who answers for them. ‘Just, you know— Steve was friends with Tommy H. Tommy H. is a _dick_— that’s all. Brad’s just being _stupid_—’

‘if that’s all it is— why aren’t you two friends with Steve now he’s not friends with that fucking limp-dicked little _prick_—?’ ok, maybe that came out a bit more _vicious_ than the situation warrants. He doesn’t want the two of them thinking he’s—

He’s—

—

_What he **is**_.

A shrug from Adam, flippant, dismissive. ‘I don’t know. He ended up some kind of social _pariah_ or something, and once he quit the team—’ grey eyes flicker over to Brad’s stony face for a moment. ‘We really should invite him out with us one night, or to one of the parties— not that he couldn’t just turn up if he wanted. It’s not like he was ever explicitly _uninvited_— but maybe he needs a proper invite. I’ll invite him—’ those eyes flick over to _his_ face, ‘If that’s alright with _you_, of course?’

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ he snaps. ‘Steve is _great_. He’s a really _great guy_.’

Oh God he should just go home. This was a fucking _mistake_.

‘You know, he actually _is_,’ Adam muses, giving Brad a _look_.

Yep. He is not oblivious enough that the fact there’s some kinda _subtext_ going on he doesn’t understand is going over his head, but—

All the rage he should feel just seems like it’s turned to sorrow for a moment. Fuck. He really does _miss_ Steve— He eyes Brad, Adam—

Whatever reason Brad doesn’t like Steve is probably small and petty and probably has Tommy fucking _H._ at the heart of it— because that guy is a raging Goddamn _dick_— He fishes out a new Gauloise and lights up, sucking in the smoke—

He does not want to think about Tommy H. right now.

Wow— this is him, backing down from what might have been something like a fight.

God he’s _tired_.

Yeah, he’s sleeping now, sleeping enough to make his way across town each night while he’s doing it— but he never feels _rested_— probably because he is _making his way across town_ each night.

He’s not proud of it, but he lets it go. Has reached a point where he’d rather focus on his bottle of bourbon and his cigarette than interrogating Brad about why the guy doesn’t like Steve. Fucking—

_Who the hell doesn’t like Steve—?_ Other than Brad— Other than _him_, back when he first came to town.

Fucking—

_Stupid—_

And is it Brad or is it himself the latter’s directed at? _Stupid_.

He finishes the last of the first bottle of bourbon and briefly considers chucking the empty into the dark, still water of the quarry, before sighing and getting up to dump it in the footwell of his baby and get the second bottle.

‘Damn Hargrove, you really can _drink_,’ Adam says, eying him slightly blearily from the guy’s perch on the rocky shore next to Brad.

He snorts. ‘You’re just a lightweight.’ Not true, but better than saying something about it being because he’s actually a literal fucking _monster_.

Adam— and Brad— start on about how that’s not true, that they can drink most of the team under the bus— and the Hawkins basketball team are fucking _notorious_Hawkins the for their tolerance or some shit— blah, blah, blah.

‘Whole town’s fucking lightweights,’ he dismisses as he cracks the seal on the new bottle.

—

Halfway through the second bottle and the world’s gone kind of loose and warm and fluffy. His head feels heavy. Everything’s all alright— even their inane chatter— and _why the fuck _do they want him around anyway? After _that night_ when he almost killed Steve he’s been happy lone wolfing it more often than not— when he’s not out to get his dick wet— instead of hanging around and trying too hard to make friends— or whatever it was he was doing. Trying to _impress_ idiots—

And then fucking _Brad_ is blurting out, ‘I just don’t fucking _get it_, ok? Faggots. I mean— _why_?’

‘Oh _Jesus_,’ he hears Adam mutter from somewhere outside of suddenly _cold_ and _far too sober_ hollow of his skull. _What_? Jesus, _what_? Has he done something to give himself away— are they gonna try and beat him up or something? Because he’ll rip their fucking heads off if they even— ‘_Why_ is it even any of your business?’ Adam adds. ‘I know you don’t have a problem with lesbians— Brad, man, you really got to get over it.’

‘Yeah, but dykes _make sense_,’ Brad declares, drunkenly— and, actually, not all that threateningly. He blinks away the sudden— _fear_, or whatever that was— and realises that the tall guy seems pretty _wasted_. And still kinda friendly. Like this is a conversation you have with your pals. ‘Who doesn’t love pussy? _I _love pussy? Have I told you how much I _love_ pussy?’

‘Far too many times to count—’ Adam replies. ‘Don’t start this shit. You’ll make Hargrove think you’re a weirdo.’

‘If I could die face first in pussy I would die a happy man,’ Brad declares. ‘Sometimes I dream about it— just going out with a girl sitting on my face—’

‘I’m sorry man,’ Adam says, addressing _him_. ‘He’s had enough to drink that he’ll start going on about _feet_ next— and how much he wants Mrs. Wheeler to step on him or something. You just gotta try and ignore it—’ the dark haired guy turns back to Brad. ‘You, my man, my oldest and dearest friend, are a _loser_ and a pervert and a _weirdo_—’ and it’s all said with absolute _affection_.

‘A pervert and proud,’ Brad raises his beer to the idea. ‘Anyway, Mrs. Wheeler has really sexy feet. Even you can’t deny that.’

‘I can and I will,’ replies Adam.

‘Shut up about her,’ he finds himself snapping. ‘Karen’s real _nice_.’

He sees Adam’s brows twitch, but gets distracted by Brad sighing, sounding _disappointed_, ‘You’re right. She is a real nice lady— I can’t imagine her ever—’

Adam interrupts his friend, ‘Yeah, we do not want to hear the end of that sentence.’

Silence falls, just for a moment, because then Brad’s on about faggots again. ‘I just don’t get it. Pussy is _wonderful_— why the hell would you want to rub off against some other dude’s hairy cock and sagging balls?’

‘This coming from _you_—’ Adam laughs. ‘Dude, not everyone’s into the same thing. I keep telling you to live and let live, it’s not like it’s hurting you—’

‘Yeah, but what about my poor, virgin eyyyah!’ the jock breaks off as his friend starts kicking at him, ‘Jesus Adam! Fucking _stop!_’

‘Do you think Hargrove wants to hear you go on about stupid shit that has _nothing to do with any of us_!’ the dark haired guy snaps between kicks. ‘Stop being so fucking _stupid_.’

‘_Hargrove_ is fucking _curious_ now,’ he says, sitting up, _looking_ at them. What the fuck is all this about—? Seems too much of a coincidence they wanted to drag him out by the quarry to drink and so Brad could complain about fag— wow. He almost hesitated that time. _Faggots_—

‘It’s nothing man,’ Adam insists, giving Brad what looks like a rather _threatening_ look.

Brad’s mouth opens, closes, opens again. A sullen look coming over that big, broad face, before the guy blows out a breath. ‘Yeah man, _nothing_—’ and then, because he knows he damn well doesn’t look _convinced_, ‘I just— I saw some—’ hazel eyes flick to Adam’s face and back to his, ‘some _out of town_ guys I think kinda— kinda flirting— ah— after a game once. Bugs me, is all—’

‘_Bugs you_—’ he repeats. Voice like lead. Thing is— he has no idea if the guy is lying or not, because if it’s true, if Brad really did see some out of town guys flirting then it makes sense that he’d be all— _weird_ about it. Because, as far as society is concerned, guys flirting is _weird_. Wrong. _Disgusting_—

Huh. He feels kinda _sick_—

‘Not like—’ Brad blurts, obviously reading _something_ into his tone, but probably not whatever was actually there. ‘Not like _beat them up_ bugs me, like, I’d _never_ do shit like that. That’s just— that’s _mean_, you know, but still— _bugs me_. It’s gross. You gotta think it’s gross too—’

What the fuck is he supposed to say to that? He’s feeling— he’s starting to feel kinda— _weird_. Floaty. Lines of pain staring to burn across his face— Fortunately Adam comes to his rescue. ‘I don’t know, the way you bitch about it almost tempts me to try kissing some dude—’

This starts Brad spluttering, ‘But— but— guys are hairy, and they _stink_— like, half the guys on the team don’t even wash their asscracks and they all smell of taint and sweaty balls and— and— gross man, _gross_. No Adam. No. No you _can’t_— you gotta be fucking with me— _what the hell kinda guy would you even_—?— Oh God, so _gross_—’

‘No hairier or stinkier than kissing some hippie chick with an unwashed cooch,’ Adam says, calm as anything— like this is something to be calm about. Just— just— talking about— _Jesus_— ‘Anyway. They’re not all like that— you ever smell Steve stinking like every inch of him hasn’t been scrubbed twice over and then slathered in some girlie body lotion?’

As Brad starts whining that Adam can’t want to kiss Harrington, he just _can’t_, he finds himself remembering bottles on the shelves of Steve’s bathroom. The scent of the guy— that cologne, his hair products, and, _yes_, if he thinks about it probably _body lotion_— but at the same time _most _of him is imagining Adam actually doing it.

_Kissing Steve_.

Adam—

Dark hair, grey eyes, undeniably _good looks_— would he be gentle? Steve _needs_ to be kissed gentle— eased into it. His eyes go to the dark haired guy’s long fingers, imagines them tangled in Steve’s hair— and in his mind that brown hair is down, long, brushing those wide shoulders instead of swept up like usual—

Maybe Adam’s already done it. Maybe he wasn’t imagining shit, just— _projecting_ or whatever his own— _feelings_— onto Steve. Maybe Steve _is_ actually a faggot.

Maybe Adam is the guy he thought might be hanging around the brunet.

—

If he is—

How much of Steve has Adam seen, _touched_, **_kissed_**— ?

Has he _fucked _him?

An image of the two of them together— Steve stretched out, head thrown back, Adam crawling up between his thighs, planting kisses across bare skin, across that big _dick_, crosses his mind— along with a burst of something that’s part _arousal_ but mostly _fury_.

A quiet _crack_. A sharp pain in his hand. Then wetness, a _burning_. The stink of cheap bourbon.

He must have tightened his grip, cracked the bottle— not enough to shatter it, but enough that he’s not got glass in his hand and high-proof rotgut soaking into it to _sting_.

He stands before he realises he’s going to do it, and a flick of the wrist sends the bottle winging out over the dark quarry to splash down somewhere in the middle of the water. His face hurts. His face _burns_— and it’s not just his face. Lines of fire are flaring up all across his body—

He glances at the other two, sees them laughing, hears them praise the _good shot_, and _Damn Hargrove, talk about a **waste** of sub-standard liquor_— and—

He wants to _rip Adam’s fucking head off_.

—

They’d look good together, that’s the thing.

They’d look good—

And whatever Adam is the guy’s—

_A good guy_.

He might even treat Steve _right_—

A tiny, reflexive movement towards the other two, fists clenching, _burning_. Everything feels kind of _stretched_. He feels—

—

It’d be so _easy_—

_Jesus, get it **together**_—

—

But then Brad— on the same fucking topic as before, dog with a Goddamn bone— is demanding to know if Adam really would kiss Steve if he had a chance—

And there’s a pause, and his heart’s in his throat, and—

And—

And—

The dark-haired guy’s face wrinkles up as he considers the question, actually _serious_ for once, before a shrug, ‘I dunno. To piss you off, maybe, but would I actually go out there and find Steve Harrington and plant a big, wet one on him for no reason other than wanting to—’ Adam trails off, face blank for a moment, before a tiny wrinkle of _distaste _appears between his brows. ‘Yeah, probably _not_. Still rather kiss him than _you _though.’

—

He feels himself relax. That— that was _real_ distaste. That wasn’t the look of a guy imagining Steve’s pretty coral lips and thinking _yes_— Still, he’s feeling kinda— _pissed off_. ‘This is the faggiest fucking conversation I think I’ve ever heard,’ he snaps.

‘_Dude_,’ Brad whines. ‘Uncool. It’s not my fault Adam’s fucking _twisted_. I like _girls_—’

‘I’d say _the lady doth protest too much, methinks _—’ Adam replies, ‘—but I’ve heard so many of your weird little fantasies I don’t think I could convince anyone.’

‘Oh, _ew,_ **_Adam—_**’ Brad whines. ‘Don’t even joke about—’

‘You know what—?’ he snaps, interrupting the guy. ‘I think I’ll head home now.’

‘And now you’ve driven Hagrove away, great job Brad,’ Adam chuckles, ignoring Brad’s outraged declaration of _me_?! and _I’m not the one going on about kissing Harrington!_ to say, ‘Better wait a while first, man. Let your body burn off some of that bourbon.’

Jesus, not this again— ‘This coming from a guy who’s had—’ he eyes the collection of empty cans around the other two. ‘All _that_.’

‘Yeah, but usually we stop an hour or so before we head home,’ Adam replies with a shrug. ‘This is supposed to be the part of the evening’s entertainment when maybe I get a chance to pick the music, we sit back, I relax until the world stops spinning, Bradley here goes on and on about how Amy thinks he’s a loser and won’t tie herself down to him—’ more outrage from the _Bradley_ in question. ‘So, you know, chill out man. Take it easy for a bit—’

He stares at the guy. ‘You serious, man? After all—’ he flails a hand at the two of them, hoping it somehow encompasses all of the _everything_ of before. ‘_Jesus_, Adam.’

‘Hah!’ Brad crows. ‘Hargrove didn’t find your Harrington shit funny either!’

‘Dudes, you both need to lighten up,’ Adam says, shaking his head. The guy’s _mocking _him. How the mighty have fallen, huh. Adam should be _pissing_ himself at the thought of pissing him off.

Fuck. He’s becoming a total fucking _loser_.

He wishes he could get away from _himself_ almost as much as he wants to get away from _them_.

He sticks his middle finger up at the pair and heads round to his baby’s driver’s side, getting in and slamming the door, speeding off with a spray of gravel that he hopes gets in both their eyes. Jesus. _Fuck them_.

Fuck them both.

He feels _sick_.

Sick and it’s _their fault_.

Fucking—

His foot’s like lead, his baby flying beneath him. He takes the corners hard, reckless, skidding across the road, just waiting to lose control.

But he doesn’t.

He _can’t_.

Hands too firm on the wheel, reflexes far, far, _far_ too good— and he’d have to do it, actually let go, take his hands off, and if he did _that_.

That would be admitting it.

That would be _deliberate_.

So he makes it home in one piece— the home he shares with Max and Susan and fucking _Neil_— and it’s still dark and quiet and his dad’s car is still gone so he knows they’re not even back yet.

He doesn’t know if that’s _good_.

If they were, if Neil was waiting for him—

He doubts he could stop himself picking a fight with the man. Not right now.

Part of him _longs_ to feel a face beneath his fists—

Feel a fist pummelling into _his own_ face. Feel the _hurt _of it—

_Would it even hurt_?

It’d hardly be a _fair_ fight, would it?

Not with— _what he’s become_.

—

Fuck.

There was a moment there when he wanted to _kill_ Adam.

—

—

Yeah. _Monster’s_ about right, isn’t it?

—

Jesus.

Yeah. _Jesus_.

The thought of Adam touching Steve still sends shivers of _rage_ through him— even though he’s pretty sure the guy wouldn’t actually want to do it. Wouldn’t _lower himself_ to kissing another guy. Wouldn’t get himself _dirty_ like that—

Fuck.

Fuck his life.

Fuck this entire fucking town may it burn in _hell_.

What a fucking _reminder_ that the world’s not kind to— to—

_People like him_.

All the fucking faggots and other _queers_.

He’s a _queer_.

He may not be outright, all in all, a _faggot_ but he’s—

He’s fucking—

—

—

Eventually the shaking stops and he straightens out of the hunch he’d sunk into, hands rising to wipe angrily at his face, trying not to acknowledge that they come away _wet_. Like fuck is he crying because of a pair of irrelevant fucking potato-faced _jocks_. Jesus.

Like hell is he—

With shaky hands he lights a new Gauloise as he slams his way out of his baby and stomps his way inside, heading straight for the fridge and one of his dad’s beers before shutting himself in his room in case everyone shows up before he can get his game face back on.

—

Yeah.

Monster and loser and _queer_—

He takes a deep breath, sucking in smoke.

It makes him panic. He’s a lot of things but he’s not _dumb_— that feeling, or at least _part_ of that feeling, a real fucking _relevant_ part of that feeling right now— it’s _panic_.

He does not want to fucking _panic_. He does not want to be fucking _anxious_—

Fuck this shit—

_Fuck it_—

Just—

He blows out the smoke, feeling loopy and light-headed. Part way to somewhere else—

But.

_But_—

Yeah. _Fuck this_.

_So what if he’s queer?_

It’s not exactly— _great_. But—

_So what_?

It’s not like he wasn’t fucking queer the first Goddamn day he set foot in this shithole town, yeah? It’s not like he wasn’t queer when Tommy H and all the nameless, faceless, _worthless_ popular kids were trying to shove Steve’s old crown on his head. It’s not like he wasn’t queer when all the everyone ever looked at him with stars in their eyes and a tingle in their junk.

Yeah. _Yeah_—

He may be a fucking _queer_ but he’s still _him_.

He’s still him and like _fuck_ is he _ever_ going to let _anyone_ look down on him for it. _Ever_.

—

He hopes.

—

But, _fake it ‘till you make it, baby_. That’s right, isn’t it? You walk around, head held high, acting like you got your shit together and like you have _every right_ to be doing whatever, to be treated _with respect_, and most of the idiots that don’t think twice and don’t live their lives looking for a fight won’t ever question it.

He’ll be fine.

It’ll be fine.

It has to be—

_What about Max though_? He doesn’t think she’s got anything against queers. Defends them, to _him_ even if most of the time she’s not brave enough to do it to _Neil_— and there’s all that stuff about the little Byers kid—

Maybe it’s different if it’s _him _though?

Maybe—

He should— _Is_ there any subtle way to ask someone what they _really_ think of queers without giving away you’re one yourself? Fuck knows.

He’s gotta try though.

If she gets grossed out or something—

How’s he gonna live with that?

—

He is not a pussy, not matter what his dad has said over the years, he is _not a pussy_— he can face up to it. Be a _man_ about it.

_Live_ with it.

Yeah.

He _can_—

Jesus. Fuck his life—

He sits in his room and smokes for a while, staring into oblivion, but he’s too antsy to keep it up. It’s like his bones are rattling. He wants to see Max— that’s the dumb thing— he wants to see her and see she’s not disgusted by him and she— and fucking _Neil_ and Susan are still out and—

After that he paces for a while, but he wants to _do_ something, is almost _desperate_ to do something. Anything.

Going out of his fucking mind.

Which may be why when his dad and Susan and Max stomp home with all the sounds of what must have been an _unhappy_ dinner he’s sitting on his bed, new beer in hand, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, looking for apartments in Susan’s stupid copy of _The_ _Hawkins_ _Post_— or what there is of it, less than half as thick as it should be and with Wheeler or even fucking _Byers_ names next to more than half the articles— Jesus _Christ_, Susan said something about them getting a new editor in from out of town— with all the authority of a woman whose ex-husband is still some low-ranked muckraker at a shitty paper back in Cali— and it can’t come soon enough— he carefully doesn’t think about why the Newspaper is as— not even short staffed, _unstaffed_ as it is.

He puts the paper down in time for her to storm into his room, red faced— and that looks even _worse_ with the stupid pink dress— Which apparently she agrees with, since she snarls, ‘I hate this dress. This dress would look cute on El— _maybe_— but I am _not El_ and I look like _puke_ and Lucas and his family were there having dinner and he gave me this _look_ and I hate Enzos and I _hate your dad_—’ she flinches, realising what she just said, the two of them holding their breaths and staring at the door, counting heartbeats until it’s obvious Neil isn’t about to come in and chuck a tantrum.

‘Yeah—’ he says after a moment, relaxing. ‘It is not a cute dress— but maybe Sinclair was looking at you because he has a thing for somebody's Auntie Pamela’s tea cosy or some shit and was barely holding himself back from flinging himself lips first at you—’ kid better _not_. Not in front of _Neil_ at least.

‘Who the fuck is Auntie Pamela?’

He shrugs. ‘I dunno. The kind of woman who has a tea cosy that looks like that dress.’

She thinks about that for a minute. ‘But what’s a tea cosy?’

‘Stupid thing you put on a teapot to keep it warm. Like a sweater or something— who the fuck _cares_?’ at this point any motivation to suddenly blurt out a question about what she really think of queers has fucking flown the coop in favour of her whining about the dress and his dad and his dad deciding what everyone was going to order and how fucking _boring_ it was because most of it was just Susan and Neil having some stilted conversation that seemed like it should have just been mundane and about nothing much but the two of them were seriously _tense_ and everything seemed to have a double meaning.

After she’s done ranting she asks him what he was up to, whether he was just sulking in his room the entire time, and he tells her he went out drinking with Adam and Brad because that’s simple and easy and doesn’t include any of the fucking _bullshit_—

And this is when their luck runs out, because Neil comes storming in to shout at everyone about keeping him awake— though doesn’t raise his fists— and Max scuttles off, sticking her middle finger up at his dad behind the man’s back as she goes.

Neil looks at him then, disgust and disappointment and a whole bunch of _shit_ in his gaze, before the man’s face scrunches up and he leaves, throwing the same old boring, derogatory bullshit about him being useless and lazy and _no kind of man_ over his shoulder as he goes, and he—

He almost _laughs_.

It’s so fucking weird.

Of course there’s that _sting_ there, but also—

_If you only knew, old man._


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For mentions of homophobia, domestic violence, and child abuse. Please let me know if I missed any.
> 
> Wow I am so tired. Chaos erupted, I exhausted myself and then managed to trigger some of my long standing health issues by exhausting myself. Yay me. So, not only was I even later than usual in replying to everyone, but this may not be the best chapter. I don't know. My internal quality controls seem to not working right now. I think everything makes sense but at the same time I doubt my judgement so... Anyway. Thank you all so much for sticking with this story, and for the comments and kudos! I hope you're all safe out there!

Max sleeps through again, or at least he thinks so. Or at least she didn’t wake between going to bed and sometime around three or four when _he_ finally drifted off properly.

He couldn’t sleep before that. Kept thinking about— _things_.

This time when he wakes behind Steve’s house he sits there for a moment, wondering if he should sneak back later and hide a packet of cigarettes out here. He’d kill for a smoke.

Almost makes him want to knock on the brunet’s front door, see if the guy is feeling generous—

Probably best not to though.

Fucking _dreams_—

Would it be better or worse if he could remember what was dragging him out here? Assuming it is the dreams. Fuck knows—

He’s pretty sure he’s still dreaming of the Upside Down, has the sense of a man— older. Grey hair. _Menacing_. Creeping around Steve’s garden— but that makes no sense.

Nothing makes any sense.

_Nothing_.

—

It’s not— It’s not a _good day_.

Not really a _bad_ one either. No shit from Neil. But not a good one.

At work Adam keeps trying to talk to him, but no way is he dealing with that right now so he does his best to avoid the guy— all in all not putting him in the best of moods. It feels like _cowardice_. Like _running away_.

He wonders if it’s obvious, the reason he doesn’t want to talk to the dark haired guy.

Wonders what Adam is thinking about him if it is.

Wonders if he’s about to experience a queer bashing as the guy being bashed and not the guy looking for an excuse to pick a fight with the kind of guy who does the bashing.

That’s all enough to worry about without worrying about anything else. But he is. Mainly _Neil_.

Because, yeah, ok, guy didn’t go for him the night before or during the positively _icy_ breakfast, but—

_But_.

By now Neil should have. He can’t remember the last time his dad went so long without fists flying—

He should be relieved.

Should be.

He definitely shouldn’t be worrying about it as much as he is.

But he knows his dad. Knows the man’s _character_. By now Neil must be even more _furious_ than the man is naturally. Spells trouble in the long run, he just knows it.

He’s doing his best to make sure the man knows Max is off limits, that Chief Hopper will fucking come after him if anything happens to the guy’s kid’s best friend— but when his dad’s in a _mood_ it’s not like common fucking _sense_ has any fucking say, so—

Jesus he is _too young_ to be so stressed.

Also, you know, there’s the new thing he’s currently trying not to think about. In this case the fact his clothes seem to be getting kinda _tight_ and that mainly seems to be because he’s putting on muscle like he’s only ever _dreamed_ of being able to do. Shit. He is going to have to lay off the weights for a bit or else he’s gonna end up some _Conan the Barbarian_ looking meathead.

And then, when he finally gets home, Max rings to ask if she can stay at the Byers’ again— fine with him. _Great_ even. Keeps her away from Neil— but then also goes on and on about how long it’s been since he saw Steve and how he should come over to the brunet’s house the next day for movies and _food_ and—

‘I’ve gotta work,’ he tells her.

‘Yeah, but _after_? Come on Billy, don’t you _miss _Steve—’ she must get something caught in her throat because she makes an awkward little coughing sound before finishing with ‘—‘s cooking? Don’t tell my mom, but he is a _way better_ cook than she is.’

And.

And.

And _oh God does he **want** to_, but—

But he is not up to really dealing with the _Steve_ part of his recent revelations just yet. Or at least not the _face to face with a Steve that’s probably not actually a fellow queer and would actually be completely and totally **grossed out** by him_ part of the Steve part of his recent— yeah.

No way is Steve really, actually— wishful fucking thinking that.

No way is Steve actually going to still want to even just be his _friend_ when the guy finds out.

No way will he get to see Steve all unguarded, hair down, wearing nothing but those skimpy little shorts—

Max’s whining brings him back to reality. He clears his throat, readjusts the front of his jeans where the fly is digging into his sudden and kinda _unwanted _hardon, tunes back in to her going on about _why_ he can’t come around to Steve’s after.

‘I said I’d go drinking with Adam and Brad,’ he tells her even though it’s a total lie and he probably never wants to do that again.

She start carrying on about why he wants to spend time with two losers she’s never even met before when he could be spending time with _Steve_ but at that point he has to cut her off before he says something stupid, saying he’ll tell her mom where she is and that he has to go now.

‘Max is staying at the Byers’ again,’ he tells Susan— busy at work cleaning the kitchen, Neil off elsewhere again— on his way past.

He does his part, answers he questions— not that there are many— even manages a vaguely sympathetic noise when she complains about being left alone all the time, agrees that the two of them can just order a pizza as she’s sick of cooking— but maybe she’ll run herself a bubble bath first, because eating before hand always makes her feel a bit sick— and there he even manages to suggest she use that lavender bubble bath Max got her for her birthday— and they both agree and they both go their separate ways and he sees Susan shutting herself in the bathroom as he shuts his bedroom door behind himself and shoves a hand down his jeans.

Fucking _Steve_. Fucking stupid little blue shorts.

Nothing he can do about it, mind lingers on legs and neck and that _hair_ and all that _skin_ and even the bulge of the guy’s _dick_ pressing against the fabric and he comes hard and fast like a punch to the gut—

He stands there, panting, hand still cupping his softening, cum slimy dick down the front of his pants.

Jesus fucking _Christ_.

That’s some game he was playing with himself, pretending like he wasn’t feeling what he was _obviously_ feeling.

Jesus.

—

Fuck Steve is so _sexy_ though. No guy should be that sexy— and it’s _effortless_ too, not like with Chelsea, trying too hard, Steve is just _naturally_ sexy. Guy’s got, like, _sex appeal_.

—

And then he’s remembering _that night_. **_That_**_ that night._ The one before he, you know, _saw the light_—

Him naked. Steve barely more dressed. Waking up the next day with his own hardon pressed against the guy’s thigh—

His dick twitches again.

Shit.

He had not wanted to think about that until now— still pretty much doesn’t, because thinking about that means thinking about stuff he’s pretty much sure he’s never going to be allowed to have and that _pisses him off_.

—

He wishes he could remember more of what Steve was saying though, remember if it seemed like the brunet didn’t mind so much being pawed at, maybe even seemed kind of into him too— But it’s a blur. His head had been real fucked up then and there and what memory he does have sticking on the way the guy looked and smelt and _felt_ in his arms way more than what the guy was saying.

Steve hadn’t tried to hit him or anything, he remembers that much—

—

He _thinks_ Steve saying the words _fuck me_ in amongst the rest of it are probably wishful thinking, some dream he hasn’t wanted to acknowledge creeping its way in—

_God_. Wouldn’t that be—

Fuck that’s _hot_.

Coral lips forming those words, big brown eyes on him and no one else, that hair down and brushing those sexy shoulders—

He tries for a moment to ignore the way his dick’s firming up again, but he can’t— he gives his dick a tug, tells himself that it’d never happen, that Steve would _never let him_, but he can’t help himself.

The brunet would be tight, all slicked up with proper lube— because you can’t use Vaseline with a condom; that night with Mercy Haywood, her new white dress, the way she wouldn’t speak to him again for weeks afterwards, and Jay laughing at the both of them like they were fucking _stupid—_ and then explaining why the condom ripped so easy— taught him that— not that he’d need to use a condom. It’s not like _Steve_ could get pregnant— not that Mercy could either, where he’d stuck it— the two of them agreeing they didn’t want even the _slightest_ chance of him ending up on the wrong side of one of her dad’s .45s and the two of them ending up tied together _forever_.

Even that thought isn’t enough to soften him up when the other thought— the thought of Steve all wet and wanting— is lurking around in the background. _Jesus_.

A guy’s ass can’t be much different to a girl’s, so he knows what it’d feel like, _inside_. He almost sinks to his knees at the thought, hand tugging at his dick, the other one going to his flies so he can get his jeans loose enough to play with his balls at the same time.

He comes again quick, still thinking about it, imagining how _good_ it’d be, and _after_ staggers over to sit on the edge of his bed and smoke a Gauloise, feeling kind of—

_Weird_.

—

Yeah, ok, it’s— If he thinks about it too much the thought that he just jerked it to a guy still makes him kinda uncomfortable, but beyond that—

In all honesty he’s never gotten why the girls he’s done up the ass wanted it, or what they got out of it— He’s pretty sure he got them off anyway, unless they’re fucking _excellent_ fakers, but if he thinks about it a girl _is_ set up to be fucked, maybe not _there_ but pretty close by, so maybe the same nerves or something are getting a workout— but a _guy_?

They do it though. Everyone knows that—

It can’t all be putting out to please the guy on top, can it? Of course some girls are like that— don’t care about getting theirs, just about keeping their guy— or the guy they’re with— happy— which he never got either.

Like hell would he bother fucking if he wasn’t getting something out of it. What’s the fucking _point_?

—

For the first time in his whole Goddamn life he’s actually thinking that he does not know enough about how fagg—

—

The word is _gay_, isn’t it? The _nice_ word.

—

— How _gay guys_ fuck.

For a split second he tries imagining taking it up the ass himself—

He almost falls off the bed as every muscle tries to simultaneously lock up and propel his limbs in every different direction. He almost swallows the cigarette, spitting it damp and a little sad onto the floor before grabbing for it before it can set the carpet on fire—

Ok.

_Ok_.

O—K—

_No_. Nope. No way. That is not— That is not something he can even _begin_ to contemplate right now.

Freaks him out.

It’s enough having to admit he’s kind of _gay_. A _bisexual_. Without thinking about— _that_.

—

—

Maybe one day—

_Far far into the future_—

—

Maybe _then_ he can try thinking about it again, but not—

Not _now_.

—

Maybe if he jerked Steve off at the same time the guy would enjoy it—

_Jesus_. Steve isn’t— isn’t—

Like, there’s _no way_ the guy actually is a fag— _gay_— or anything in the first place, hasn’t he already worked that out? Decided it? And even if he _is_—

Would a sexy little piece like Steve actually give _him_ a shot?

—

Wow. Fucking— _self-esteem in the toilet, huh?_

Of fucking _course_ Steve would give him a shot. Look at him, handsome as fuck, charming— _when he wants to be_— and he knows for damn sure he’s a good fuck— and he’d treat Steve _right_. He would. He fucking _swears it_.

He ever gets the chance and he will treat Steve so good the brunet will never even _dream_ of leaving him.

—

Not that he’ll ever get a chance.

Steve’s not—

And even if he _was_—

He actually acts on this bisexuality of his and he’s gonna be raining hell down around his ears— from Neil, from jackoffs like Adam and Brad, from society in general—

_Would it be worth it_?

—

—

Why does some part of him just want to scream _yes_?

Also, _fuck society_.

Fuck all of it.

It’s all _bullshit_.

Then Susan’s calling out through the door that she’ll order the pizza and what does he want and his come-sticky dick is still hanging out of his jeans. _Jesus_.

—

He and Susan watch some stupid, tragic, made-for-TV movie— him more staring at the wall and trying not to think too much about Steve again or risk a hardon in front of his step-mother, her drinking cheap white wine and looking like she’s about to start crying— and eat their plain pepperoni pizza.

Neil doesn’t come home. Again.

Susan doesn’t bother with an excuse this time.


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For themes of homophobia, a bit of sexism, domestic violence and child abuse, possibly kind of dub-conish powers related stuff depending how you look at it. 
> 
> Sorry I didn't get back to everyone earlier. The excuse this time was that I was focusing as much as I could to getting Billy's timeline caught up with Steve's, which I have- hence longer chapter than usual. Next chapter should be from Steve's POV. He and Billy may even end up interacting- though that may be the chapter after. I just have a couple more scenes in mind first. Sorry. Though it just occurred to me that they kind of *do* interact in this chapter, even though neither of them realise it at the time. Though maybe saying that is spoilers. I don't know. Anyway, hope you all enjoy, and thank you for the comments and the kudos! I'll stop blithering on now so you can get on with the fic-

The next morning he wakes up _in Steve’s backyard by the pool_ instead of in the woods.

Jesus fucking _Christ_.

He is out of there as quick as he can manage, only stopping for the piss his body is screaming for when he’s damn sure Steve hasn’t seen him and isn’t following.

—

_For fuck’s sake Hargrove, Jesus_—

Neil still isn’t back when he stumbles home, Susan sitting all alone at the dining table looking very much like the night before’s _about to cry_ turned to _actual crying_ sometime since he last saw her.

She looks up at him but doesn’t ask where he’s been or accuse him of sleep-stalking unnecessarily gorgeous boys or anything, so he thinks it’s gonna be ok— until she then says, ‘He’s cheating on me, isn’t he?’

Well. _Shit_. Actual acknowledgement. Things really are falling apart, aren’t they?

He shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’ It’s true, isn’t it?

‘Don’t try to protect him,’ she snaps, glaring.

‘Do I fucking look like I’m trying to protect him?’ he hisses back. ‘I _don’t know_. Not for sure— it’s not like we’re _close_ or anything—’ he sighs, ‘_Probably_, though,’ and then, ‘I would not be surprised.’

She looks at him for a moment, then nods. Gets up with a kind of brittle fragility and leaves the room, heading for her bedroom. He waits for a minute to see if he’s needed for anything, but she doesn’t reappear, so he gets ready for his day at the pool.

—

Then, all day, fucking _Adam_ won’t leave him alone. It’s like the day before but _worse_. Every time he turns around there Adam is, wanting to _talk _to him.

It pisses him off. _Pisses him off_— and no amount of ‘_Fuck off Adam!_’ seems to be getting through, so he’s probably going to have to beat the guy up—

That’ll set Brad and the others— the popular kids not so much friends with Tommy H and his group— _as if any of that fucking matters anymore, fucking **losers**_— against him. Meaning he’ll probably end up the same social pariah as Steve did, with actual _cause_ in his case— but like fuck he cares.

At least thinking about Adam— and how to show the guy he means business and get him to actually _fuck off_ without accidentally _killing_ the smug little shit— is thinking about something other than the fact Max is hanging out at Steve’s today and how much he wishes he was there— he’s almost forgotten what the brunet smells like— the exact tone of his voice— has started contemplating whether that extreme _sexiness_ is just his mind playing tricks, exaggerating the situation—

Though thinking about beating up Adam does edge a little too close again to thinking of Adam with _Steve_ again— and if he does that then things might just edge a little too close to _committing homicide_ instead of getting rid of a pest, so he has to be _careful_.

After work he has his shower early, gets dressed, then lurks in the shadows, Gauloise hanging out of his mouth, until everyone else is gone and it’s just Adam and him— the dark haired guy obviously looking for him.

Then, when they’re alone, he strikes, creeping up behind the guy and shoving him face first into the wall near the men’s bathroom. ‘What do you want, Larrimer?’ he demands, forearm pressed firmly against the back of the guy’s neck, _pinning him_.

‘_Shit_!’ Adam squeaks. ‘Warn a guy—’ the guy starts struggling, pushing against the grip he has on him and getting _nowhere_. ‘Jesus you are _strong_ Hargrove—’

He pushes a little harder, until Adam lets out a hiss of pain. ‘Every time I turn around there you are, it’s pissing me off. You get that? _Pissing me off_— Now, I don’t know what you want from me, but if you’re trying to recruit me for Hawkins’ homophobic fucking _fag bashing_ society then—’ Jesus, he might as well come waltzing out the closet right in front of the guy—

‘_No!_’ Adam yelps, struggling a little harder. ‘_Fuck_. Hargrove I know shit got— _weird_— or something last time and I just wanted to make sure you knew we’re not like that. _I’m_ not like that, not a— a— a _bigot_ or something— and _oh my God I can’t believe I’m having this conversation, _but here we are, having this conversation. Um. _Yeah_—’

‘_Why_?’ it comes out _hissed_. His heart is in his throat. Lines are burning across his skin— _What does Adam know?_

There is a pause. A long pause. Then, very, very _carefully_, the dark-haired guy speaks. ‘I know things are different in California—’

‘In _California_?’ he repeats, incredulous.

‘Yeah,’ Adam says, nodding frantically— you know, it’d barely take any more pressure and he could break the guy’s neck. Douse him in bourbon. Throw him in the quarry— _what is he thinking?_ ‘Yeah. _California_. Things are different. People. _Views_, you know, everyone says it’s more—’ the guy thinks for a minute, ‘—well I’ve heard people call it _degenerate_, but I think what they’re getting at is more _permissive_ or something. You know, _live and let live_— and that’s a philosophy I can get behind, you know, no point starting shit for people who mean you no harm— of course I’m not talking pedos and dog-fuckers and corpse— _you know_. Sickos. But—’ Adam sucks in a deep, satisfyingly _panicked_ breath— and it must be real clear to the guy now exactly who has the power right now and exactly how _helpless_ the dark-haired guy is in his grip— ‘_Gays_. I don’t have a problem with gays and I just didn’t want you— being as you’re— _from California— _with your—_ obviously more progressive views_— thinking I do and deciding we can’t hang out or whatever—'

He thinks about this for a minute. Thinks about all the ways he could interpret the things Adam is obviously not saying— _from California_, yeah, ok— of course he is, but it’s obvious that’s not what the guy means— just like it’s obvious he’s somehow given himself away— _impulse_, the slightest more pressure— but he makes himself relax. It seems to him that Adam is saying that he’s worked out he’s a queer of some kind and is ok with it—

‘What about Brad?’ he snaps. ‘He share your— _Californian_ views?’

Adam snorts, ‘He’s a bit more— _Indiana_. But he’s _not_— Really, he talks a lot of shit, _ugly_ shit sometimes, but he’d _never_— He’s a _good guy_— and I’m not just saying that because he’s been my friend since _forever_. He’s a good guy. He _is_—’

‘Yeah, _real convincing_,’ he snorts, stepping away as Adam starts to turn around, resting his back against the bricks.

The dark-haired guy’s mouth opens, closes, opens again— ‘I can’t tell you why I know it for sure—’ he goes to interrupt, scoff, but Adam speaks over him. ‘It’s _personal_— not for me, but for— It’s— Um— about _someone else_ with— ah— _Californian views_. Not the sort of thing you should just tell people without the person in question’s permission, you know? But Brad— maybe he talked some shit at first, but once he got used to it— He was good, _is _good. Kind— and I know, I know he can be _trusted_ with— yeah. Um—’

‘It’s not _you_, is it?’ he asks before he can stop himself. Memories of nightmare fantasies of Adam and Steve clawing at the edges of his mind. ‘You’re not the— _Californian_?’ Fucking stupid fucking way to—

The guy snorts out a laugh. ‘Me?—’ then a contemplative little tilt to his head, before he shakes it. ‘No. I don’t think so— I mean if some guy offered to let me—’ he clears his throat, ‘—_go surfing_, maybe I’d give it a go, see what it’s like— but the thought by itself doesn’t _appeal_. Doesn’t gross me out exactly but just doesn’t— I mean. I’d rather— _go hiking—_ out here in Indiana with some of the lovely ladies of the class of ’85.’

He stares at the guy. _He better not even think about— **surfing**— with Steve_, but aside from that— ‘You are a total fucking _weirdo_, you know that?’ What kind of guy is like _I’m not interested in guys, at all, but if one hit on me I’d consider— whatever **surfing** actually fucking means in Adam’s twisted little head_. Kissing. _Fucking?_

‘Yep,’ Adam says, looking fucking _proud_. ‘Better weird than _boring_. Anyway, _truce_? Or, like, _friends_?’

He barks out a laugh. ‘_Jesus_. Ok, you utter freak, _friends_ or whatever—’

—

Which is how he ends up drinking out by the quarry with Adam and, unfortunately, _Brad_ after all.

Jesus.

_Friends_.

Actual _friends_ friends, not _Steve_— object of his unrequited longing— friends. Like, a friend that is just a _guy._ A guy he doesn’t want to kiss or anything.

—

—

Fucking hell—

It has been a _while_.

—

Thankfully they steer clear of topics like Steve Harrington, and homosexuality, instead babbling on about shit he doesn’t give a fuck about, tuning it out into the usual kind of background noise while he sips his beer and smokes his Gauloises— he’ll need to get more of them soon. Maybe Candy will be there— he hasn’t seen her since that— _weirdness_— between them. He vaguely wants to make sure she’s ok— though mostly he doesn’t care.

His attention only returns to his companions when Brad gets wasted enough that he starts going on about Amy— reminding him of what Adam had said last time.

It’s even more pathetic and pining than the dark-haired guy had suggested, and by the end of it he knows way more shit than he knew before or _ever_ wanted to know about Brad Dailey’s kinks. _Jesus_.

He gets the vaguely creeped out sense that Brad was getting off on the idea of Amy going with _him_ instead of Brad himself that time the tall jock was watching them all the party— fucking— _cuckolding_, isn’t that? Or something? Why the fuck would he know? Or _care_?

Like, the whole idea is an absolute fucking _anathema_ to him— the idea of finding it hot that someone else was touching, kissing, _fucking_ his— _person_— The kind of shit that’d make him commit fucking _homicide_.

Just _imagine it_— someone else’s hands all over those long legs, fingers in that brown hair, lips on—_ dick_ rubbing against—

—

He takes some deep, _deep_ breaths, trying to ignore the lines of fire spreading across his flesh. Yeah. _Not a kink he shares_.

—

Though it does sound _hot_, the way Bred describes being pinned down and _ridden_ by Amy— or not _Amy_, but— whole body turned over to Steve’s pleasure— though he’s not sure about the _being reduced to nothing more than an **object**, a dildo she can get off with_ part of what makes it hot. More—

Fuck. He’d _love_ to see Steve come—

Hottest fucking idea, _ever_.

—

He’s going to end up jerking off again, isn’t he? Thinking about—

—

Fucking Brad. He still does not like _Brad_. Adam— Adam is ok, but _Brad_—

The guy says something to make him think the big _potato’s_ gonna be a _threat_ and—

Anyway, when he finally escapes back home he finds no Neil, _again_, and Susan sitting in the lounge room, so drunk that she can barely raise her head to look at him.

He has to help her to bed, finding himself making soft little shushing noises at her like he’s a woman or someone decent like _Steve_ while she cries sadly— the soft and kind of soggy tears of someone who has been crying off and on for at least a couple hours now— and keeps telling him _sorry_.

He gets the feeling it’s about more than just the state she’s in—

And he _wishes_ it’s enough to keep his hand out of his pants and his mind away from Steve— a sad and sorry— and more than a little _soggy—_ stepmother should be, but—

But—

He comes imagining his hands massaging Steve’s big dick, the brunet squirming and moaning and sighing and _coming_— just for him. Him _alone_.

—

He wakes up in Steve’s back yard again. _Jesus_.

When he gets back home Susan is sad but composed, smiling at him with the merest twitch of her lips like she wants to but can’t remember how her face works. He has breakfast with her for once— frozen waffles, hah— because he can’t help the soul-deep cringe of something like sympathy he doesn’t want to feel.

He still doesn’t like her much.

He doesn’t _want_ to like her.

—

Of course Neil has returned once he gets back from an utterly uneventful day at the pool, by way of the Candy-less 7-11 for more Gauloises— no one drowned, no one really flirted, Adam wasn’t even there to be all— _Adam_— Yeah. Boring.

His dad is back, like he never left. Though, for all Neil is acting like nothing’s— _wrong_— it’s obviously not extending to Susan. She’s— _cold_. A strange, frosty _dignity_ to her movements—

She is _pissed_.

He wonders how long it will take for Neil to notice.

He wonders what his dad will do when the old bastard does.

—

Then he gets sent to fetch Max, again, because his dad is still playing the _family man_ kind of hypocrite and wants her around for dinner.

It’s fucking _embarrassing_, again, but at least the Chief isn’t here this time for him to have to lie to.

‘Neil?’ she asks as she climbs into his baby.

He nods. ‘Neil.’

‘_Ass_,’ she sighs, and then, ‘You coming tomorrow to help the Byers— and El and Hopper— move?’

He frowns at her. ‘The fuck are you talking about?’

‘The Byers are moving house tomorrow,’ she says, slowly, like he’s an idiot.

‘Since _when_?’

‘Since _ages_,’ she sighs. ‘I _told you_, like, _days ago_—’

‘No you didn’t,’ he’s sure he would have remembered.

‘_Yes_ I did,’ she snaps. ‘Oh my God Billy you _never _listen to me—’

‘I listen to you _all the time Maxine_,’ he snaps back. ‘I listen to you no matter what totally _inane shit_ you’re going on about, Jesus.’

‘I do _not_ go on about _inane shit_. **_You_** go on about inane shit—’

And, yeah, maybe by the time they get back home they’re squabbling, but they both fall silent as they approach the house. Inside— Neil is a sullen presence sitting at the table, Susan still cold, her movements jerky as she serves dinner.

The air inside feels _thick_. Sullen. Leaden with all the not-good things under the surface.

It catches in his throat, makes him feel _sick._ Child Billy, long dead and buried he’d hoped, seems to be clawing at the coffin in the back of his mind— It’s like his parents, back in the day.

Fucking _freaks him out_.

He goes to his room as early as he can, even the thought of _Steve_ not enough to stir his dick. Instead he does his weights, eyes on the door, wondering if tonight will be the night Neil finally _snaps_ and goes for his head.

It’s not.

Still, he sleeps badly. Badly enough that he wakes in the woods in the dark, only part way to Steve’s house, and manages to get back home long before the light. Which is good, because he’s almost drifted off again when Max shows up in his room, shaking, tears rolling down her face, to climb into his bed again and huddle against him and it’s like all their earlier squabbling becomes _nothing_.

As he strokes her hair and listens to her shuddering little sobs— no words this time, no explanation— he wonders if this is what it’s like being a _parent_. Then wonders how the hell this has happened to him.

Then why he doesn’t mind.

—

He drops her off at the Byers’ early the next day after getting the Byers’ new address off her, repeating, and then again, and again, that he has _work_—

‘You _always_ have work these days,’ she sighs. ‘Oh my God Billy— you’re becoming _no fun,_ seriously —’ and then, a moment later, ‘_Steve_ will be there. You know how much he likes helping people.’

‘That’s because he’s a _good guy_,’ he says, carefully. Eying her. _What does that **look** mean?_

She rolls her eyes. ‘I _know_. **_Everyone_** likes Steve—’

It suddenly occurs to him— ‘Wheeler and Byers haven’t been hanging around him, have they?’ Better not have. Fucking— _making him unhappy_.

‘Mike and Will?’ she asks, face wrinkling uglily in confusion.

‘No dipshit. _Wheeler_ Wheeler and _Byers_ Byers. The big ones.’

‘Nancy and Jonathan?’ she stares at him. ‘No. They, like, _ignore him_ most of the time. _Why_?’

Relief. ‘No— no reason. Just curious,’ he manages, but she’s _looking_ at him again and he doesn’t think she buys it. At least she doesn’t _say_ anything though. Still— he doesn’t _like_ the idea of Steve being at the Byers’ house with them where they can—

If they corner Steve and try to _touch_ him he’ll—

_Do absolutely nothing because he won’t know anything about it because he’s been avoiding the brunet like a fucking **coward**_.

The thought puts him in a bad mood for the rest of the day.

—

Adam invites him to yet _another _party at Brad’s— and he’s thinking of going, but when he gets home to get changed fucking _Neil_ is still there, in an obvious _mood, _and demanding he bring Max home for dinner again. _Jesus_. His dad’s even gone out and bought Susan a bunch of flowers at some point during the day— though a look at her is enough to tell she’s unimpressed.

Go Susan. He wouldn’t have thought she had that much backbone—

Still. _Worrying_.

Neil doesn’t like it when people don’t do what he expects. What he _wants_.

Few things piss his dad off more than people pissed off at him for _valid reasons_. Can’t have that. In the old man’s head he’s fucking _perfect_. Goddamn _beyond reproach_.

—

So maybe he isn’t expecting to be confronted with the sight of Steve heading out of the Byers’— much less _creepy_, even if it looks like it could use some work— big new house along with Squawky and said little Byers. Part of him’s thinking that Chief Hopper’s probably all over fixing the place or he could offer to lend a hand, make thinks nice for El and the little Byers kid, but the rest of him—

_Fuck_.

It’s like a punch in the gut.

—

He finds his foot easing down on the breaks, slowing the car so he can get a proper look. _Steve looks tired_—

But, fuck, he wasn’t kidding himself, was he? Wasn’t making shit up. Exaggerating it. Steve is fucking _gorgeous_.

Dark eyes meet his for a second before the brunet looks away, all attention on ushering Squawky into the car. There’s no waiting, welcoming smile. No nervous little wave. No—

His heart clunks in his chest.

It’s—

It’s _nothing_. Nothing. Steve probably hasn’t realised it’s him, that’s all, or maybe the brunet is a bit sore about being ignored— but he can make that up to him. He _can_— yeah. Yeah— he just has to—

To—

_Fucking man up and stop avoiding him_.

—

But not tonight. Tonight he has to get Max and drag her back to what’s shaping up to be an even more fucking _horrible_ dinner than usual.

Feeling weirdly self-conscious— and like he wants to check and see if Steve’s looking at him— he stomps up to the front door. It opens before he gets there, the Chief cocking a brow at him, ‘Some other family engagement you forgot?’

He shrugs. ‘I’ve been real forgetful since we moved to Hawkins. Must be all the fresh country air.’

The man just nods, a rueful look on his face, then bellows, ‘Max! Your brother’s here to get you.’

She comes scurrying out looking tired and relieved to see him, beginning to whine about Mike and El and Lucas and Squawky how _annoying_ everyone is, _Oh my God_, the moment the car door shuts. Then, of course, ‘_Neil_?’

He nods. ‘He wants you there for dinner.’

‘This late?’ and ‘I already ate,’ she complains, and then, when he looks at her. ‘Pizza. It was ok. Not as good as something Steve would make— We should get him to make pizza. I bet he’s _great_ at pizza—’

Ignoring that last part he tells her, ‘You’re going to have to eat more.’

‘I don’t want to eat more. I ate _too much_ already—’ she whines.

‘Max!’ he snaps. ‘My dad’s in a mood and shit’s weird at the house, so do what you’ve got to do to avoid bringing it down on you, ok?’

She blows out a huffy breath. ‘Someone should eat _Neil_. Or _something_— I bet we could find something to eat Neil—’ she blinks, glances at him a little nervously. ‘Um. _I didn’t mean that_?’

‘Real convincing,’ he smiles, or kind of _grimace-smiles_ at her. ‘It’s— God. Sometimes _I_ wish something would eat him too, so, yeah. He’s a fucking _dick_.’

She gives him an awkwardly sympathetic little smile before they both fall silent. He can feel it here, in the car with them, how much neither of them want to be heading home right now.

—

The sad thing is that he’s had _worse_ dinners with his dad— though this ranks up there pretty high with the worst of the ones with Neil _and_ Susan— who is still, obviously, _undeniably_ pissed. At least— not that it’s much of an _at least_— the old man’s responding irritation seems directed at his wife and not at _them_, but it’s still horrible.

Still freaking Max out.

_Scaring her_.

_Pissing **him** off._

Like usual on nights like this they creep off to bed as soon as possible, leaving Neil sulkily watching his war films and Susan icily retreated to the bedroom with a book.

He does his weights then gets ready for bed, catching his own reflection in the mirror— Yeah. He really needs to cut back on all the exercise— he flexes, stretches, rubs a hand down his chest and belly, feeling the thick layer of _muscle_ beneath. Fuck, every time he looks at himself recently it’s like he’s become more _built_. Jesus.

—

He looks good though, he can’t deny that. Fucking _epic _hair, epic facial hair, real _man’s_ body— big hands and bulging muscle. The kind of body that’d look _good_ next to Steve’s taller, skinnier one. The brunet’s darker hair and eyes contrasting his own blond, blue-eyedness the same as their bodies.

Yeah.

His hand goes back to his belly, sliding down over his abs— _Jesus does he have** real **cut** abs now**_, wow— and down to his dick. He looks at it in the mirror, cradled in his hand. It’s not a bad dick, not as big as Steve’s, but not a bad dick. Nothing to be ashamed of—

He kind of wants to show it to Steve— and then remembers he has. Steve has seen his dick— seen it _hard_. It throbs at the thought.

In the end he jerks off ruthlessly to the thought of Steve touching him, Steve looking all _impressed_, Steve red faced and with bitten lips—

When he’s done he wipes his hand on the t-shirt he was wearing earlier, collapsing back onto his bed to smoke a Gauloise and check the apartment rentals in _The Hawkins Post_. Nothing new. Nothing much at all—

Jesus. The new editor can’t arrive soon enough.

He stubs the cigarette out in the overfilled ashtray on the nightstand— he needs to clean that out— and lets himself doze off, idly wondering where he’ll wake up. Sometimes he worries it’ll be inside the Harrington house, then what’ll he do?—

Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness things start to get _weird_. There’s a faint, warm, _wet_ presence over his dick, making it twitch and throb and swell once more, him raising a little closer to consciousness, reaching down, _cupping_ it— and then **_guilt_**. Pervasive. _Invasive_. Coming from elsewhere, not from him.

And then he’s in the locker room and he’s got Steve pinned to the wall and he’s saying cruel, _demeaning _shit, grinding up against the brunet’s ass— **_No_**. No. _Don’t_—

He gasps in a breath, lurching upwards in bed, awake again, shaking, feeling _weird_ and guilty and _no_. No. He’d _never_.

Steve’s too good—

_Too good_—

And for a moment it’s like he’s trapped in a whirl of fantasy, what he would do if he could just reach out, just _touch_— and it’s sensation. A mouth against his, the feel of a tongue slipping over his fingers, silky skin beneath his hand, a warm mouth closing over the head of his dick, the wrinkled little furl of a hole beneath his touch—

And he’s so tired. _So tired_. And it’s easy to fall backwards, to slip under where it’s all soft and warm and heavy, and it _is_ heavy, a weight pressing him down, a long, slender body on top of his, soft, smooth skin beneath his hands. He thrust upwards, groping at the flesh beneath his hands, pulling at the pyjama pants hiding Steve’s dick from him, until it’s free. Free and rubbing against his own.

His own rubbing against it. Touching it. Touching _Steve_—

When he comes it’s brutal enough to wake him properly, to jolt him all the way out of sleep. _What_? He feels kind of dizzy and lost and disorientated.

He breathes, flinching when he’s sure for a moment that he can _smell_ Steve— The smell, if there is any, dissipates like the warmth he’s sure he can feel soaked into his skin.

_Jesus Christ_, getting a bit pathetic there, hey Billy-boy?

He sits up, switching on the light and fishing out a Gauloise from the pack on the nightstand. He feels weird. _Weird_. Real fucking **_weird_**— though even to himself he can’t quite describe weird in what way.

He thinks part of it is the bit of the dream where he was real _mean_ to Steve, because he doesn’t want to be mean to Steve, especially not like _that, _makes him feel like— Wow. Yeah. Ok. Makes him feel like a _bad guy_, even thinking about it. Even having some stupid little wet dream about it.

He is getting _majorly_ sentimental or something.

The rest of it is probably just actually _remembering_ one of his dreams for once, because he _can_, he can remember every dirty moment of it— not that it was _that_ dirty. If he was actually in control, _lucid dreaming_ or whatever it’s called, that dream would have been utterly fucking _filthy_, instead of just a bit raunchy.

Still— he’s grown used to waking to the vague _sense_ of whatever he was dreaming about, something that might as well be the memory of a memory of a memory of the Upside Down. The knowledge he was dreaming about it but no real memory of _what _he was dreaming other than faint impressions.

He doesn’t think he’s been having wet dreams. He doesn’t think he’s been dreaming about what’s in Steve’s little blue shorts and that’s what’s been propelling him across town every night. When he wakes up in the woods, in Steve’s _yard_, he feels _different_ than he feels right now.

Right now he feels like he’s had a— admittedly not entirely satisfying— _fuck_. Nerves still kind of buzzing. That sleepy lassitude along with— embarrassingly— the vague sense he’d kinda like to be holding someone right now.

When he’s done with the smoke he butts it out in the ashtray, hissing when ash from the _entirely too many other cigarettes_ in it spills out onto the nightstand. Fuckit. He’ll worry about it tomorrow.

He flicks off the light and settles down so he’s comfortable, waiting for sleep. It doesn’t come for a long time, and when it does it’s deep, _empty_, a delightfully _restful_ void.


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: for hints of dysfunctional family dynamics/child abuse, an oblique mention of fear of homophobic reprisal, and mentions of possible sexual interest from a guy going back to when Steve was underage. Please let me know if I missed any.
> 
> So. Firstly we are back with Steve. Secondly no Billy and Steve interacting in person. Yet. But there will be Billy really, really soon. We are on the day when they interact. I'm aiming for next chapter. Anyway, thank you all for sticking with me to this point, and thanks for the comments and kudos that let me know you're still enjoying this story!

He drinks his morning coffee out by the pool, smoking one of his mom’s God awful Gauloises— he’d actually crept into her room to steal another pack from her nightstand, the smell of her perfume— stale now, it’s been so long since she was home— making him self conscious and guilty.

The smoke smells like Billy now— still horrible, but like Billy—

The blue of the water seems to call to him, eyes caught on it—

—

‘Steve? Is everything alright?’

He glances up, frowning, then feeling a blush rise. _Richie Lewis_, standing in front of him looking all concerned. He glances down at the cigarette, sees it’s burned down to the butt—Who knows how long the guy’s been there.

A flash of the night before, of trying to get off, of trying to think about this man before giving up, about how much he _wants_ Billy, crosses his mind. ‘Yeah, fine. Are you—?’ he frowns. He can’t remember organising for the guy to come around.

‘Your dad rang me,’ Richie Lewis says with a sort of apologetic half-shrug. ‘He wants me to do some work around here.’

‘Oh,’ he glances down at his now cold cup of coffee, the butt of his cigarette. ‘Do you want a coffee first?’

‘Sure.’

Richie follows him inside, chattering away as he makes another pot of coffee. He plays his part, drawing on years of his mom’s training to ask the right questions about how the man is doing— _good_— how his wife is doing— _also good_— the kids— _great! Kathy’s going to start school next year_— the business— _really well, he’s got Pete Cooper working for him now,_ and then_ though, of course, he’s come around to do the work here himself since— **Mr Harrington’s**— always been so supportive and, obviously, deserves his **best work**_— and then he asks what he’s dad wants Richie to do. Which is apparently clean up the yard, tend to the trees, and put in a _sauna_ of all—

He sighs. His dad is his dad. What does the man think, that his mom’s going to let him drag the pretty young things home and get them all sweaty in the backyard? _Jesus dad_.

He ends up having to help the man get what seems like an _unnecessarily _long bit of wood out of the back of his truck— apparently it’s stuck? And apparently that means he has to crawl into the truck bed on hands and knees and try and shift it while Richie _pulls_ it from the end— don’t ask him, this is, like, _not his area of expertise_— and all he can think is he wants more coffee and maybe another cigarette— when there’s the sound of a throat clearing.

Kneeling up and glancing back reveals Robin standing there with a funny _look_ on her face. A smile breaks over his face, ‘Robin!’

‘Stevie,’ she replies, the _look_ transferring solely to Richie, ‘You two need any help with that?’

It’s funny, Richie looks kind of— _weird_. Guilty, maybe. ‘Um,’ the man manages, then ‘Ah, no, I think we just about loosened it up now—’ a tug and a twist and the piece of wood comes loose, Richie gesturing for him to get out of the truck bed before the man shifts the length so it’s balanced over his shoulder and heads towards the backyard with a ‘Thanks for the hand Steve.’

Now the _look_ is directed at him. ‘You want a coffee?’ he offers, hoping it’ll make her _stop_.

‘Of course,’ she replies, like it’s obvious. It kind of is. Robin does _love_ coffee— ‘Are there cookies? Please tell me there’s cookies—’

‘Peanut butter,’ he replies with.

‘Oh I am going to get _so fat_ and it is going to be _all your fault_,’ she sighs happily.

‘I can stop making them if you’d like?’ he offers.

‘_Never_!’ She declares, slinging an arm around his shoulder and looking at him with way more seriousness than he thinks the situation warrants. ‘Promise me Stevie, hell or highwater or, you know, _evil Russians _and _eldritch monstrosities_, you must never stop making cookies—’ and then, in a fit of _something_ she does a remarkably good Leia impression. ‘Help me Stevie Harrington, your cookies are my only hope.’

She’s staring deeply into his eyes, all seriousness. He can’t help it, he _snorts_, giggles escaping a moment later— she keeps up the serious façade for as long as she can, which isn’t long— her expression cracks, her own laughter getting loose.

It’s stupid, and not even that funny, but the laughter is such a relief he’s reluctant to stop, making stupid jokes that she returns with even stupider ones as he makes her coffee and serves up a couple of cookies, nibbling on one himself— not exactly a _healthy_ breakfast, but, you know, it is _food_— which is probably a step up from his original plan of more coffee, another cigarette and a bunch of self-indulgent misery.

He invites her to come with him to the Hopper-Byers— which might be presumptuous of him, but he can’t imagine a world where Mrs Byers won’t just, like, _love_ Robin on sight. Nance should like her too— Robin’s cool, amazingly cool, and like Nancy kind of different than the other girls— not that the other girls are all the same, but they’re better at _fitting in_ and both Nance and Robin don’t really want to, he thinks, deep down.

‘You’re ok with just leaving him here?’ she asks, which takes him a moment to understand.

‘Richie?’ She nods. He shrugs, ‘I guess. Dad trusts him to do the work without being watched, so—’

‘Yeah, but it doesn’t, like, _make you uncomfortable _or anything, does it?’ now she looks concerned for him.

He’s not quite sure how to say that when it comes to what his dad wants him own personal comfort rarely has anything to do with it, so— ‘It’s fine. He’s, yeah— he does good work?’ Why did that come out as a question?

Why is she giving him that _look_ again?

He needs a shower and to do his hair and everything before they can go, but the great thing about Robin is give her a TV and a VHS player or a Betamax player (or, in the case of his dad’s obsession with having all the cool new toys he’ll never use, _both)_ as well as the collection of her weird movies that have somehow migrated to his den from her house and she’s remarkably low maintenance. He has no worries she’ll get bored or annoyed or angry with him or anything— in fact his only real worry is he won’t be able to drag her away from the screen.

The shower is quick, shame returning, making it hard to linger under the comfort of the water. God— jerking off thinking about Billy. He hopes no one can see it on him—

He’s almost finished with his hair when the phone rings. He trots over to his bedroom thinking Dustin, or maybe one of the other kids. Max— maybe something’s wrong with Billy’s car again and he’ll have to drive the guy around—

‘Harrington residence, Steve here—’

‘Steven,’ he feels his stomach drop. The connection is bad, _really bad_, full of strange pops and crackles and this utterly _creepy _echo, but he’d recognise that voice anywhere, even though it’s been _years_.

‘Uncle Martin—’ he manages, only to be interrupted—

‘Put your mother on.’ It’s an order.

‘She’s not here—?’ he tries, and then, firming up his voice. ‘I can take a message if you want?’

‘Where is she?’ is the reply. ‘You must have the number, give it to me.’

‘I—’ he clears his throat. ‘I don’t. I don’t know where she is and I don’t have the number— Dad said something about the Hamptons—’

He hears a low sound of annoyance, then the words, ‘You really are useless, aren’t you? _Where_ in the Hamptons? You must know something, even you’re not _that_ stupid—’

It’s funny. It’s like something _snaps_. ‘You know what Uncle Martin?’ he hisses, ‘You can _fuck off_. Find her yourself.’ He slams down the receiver.

_Oh shit_.

He is going to be in _so much trouble_ when his mom finds out.

The phone starts ringing again, making him jump backwards, heart in his throat. If he picks it up he is going to be— not even _yelled at_. Dressed down. Made to feel _small _and _stupid_— **_smaller _**and **_stupider_**—

And he should answer it, because he knows his mom has been worried about Uncle Martin— the man busy with work or something, not ringing as much these last couple of years— because his dad and Uncle Martin had a fight, like the fights his dad ends up having with _everyone_, and then Uncle Martin was banned from the house— actually, if he thinks about it, has the man rung at all?— He can’t remember his parents fighting about it— but that’s probably just because the man has called his mom when his mom was somewhere else and Uncle Martin had the number. It’s not like a man like Uncle Martin could just go _missing_— and obviously he’s not missing, because he just called—

Oh wow he feels sick. Uncle Martin is—

He actually prefers his _dad’s_ company. Not by much, but—

The phone rings out— a moment later it starts up again. Oh God, what should he do?

The ringing stops.

It’s like he can breathe again.

‘_Jesus_,’ he mutters to himself, feeling the way his body is trembling. Ok, ok, _big smile_, he’ll just pretend that didn’t happen.

He finishes his hair, checking himself over in the mirror and not liking what he sees. Hair’s good, which is good, but there are shadows under his eyes and he thinks he looks thin and kind of _pasty_— but not like the kind of guy who jerks off thinking about guys who would not want a guy jerking off thinking about them.

He pastes on a smile— almost wincing at how good he is at faking it— and goes out to meet Robin. She looks up from the screen with a matching smile on her face, before frowning. ‘Is everything ok?’

‘What?’ he blurts out. ‘Why? Um— Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘You look kind of—’ she shakes her head, a strange flash of guilt coming over her face. ‘Nevermind. Yeah. Shall we go?’

He lets Richie know he’s going out and then they pack into his car, Robin fiddling with the radio as he heads towards the Hendersons’. Then, all of a sudden, she says ‘Richie Lewis is married right? To Sharon— _Anderson_ wasn’t it? Right? It’s not like I imagined that, is it? And they have kids—’

He frowns, glancing at her, wondering what the hell she’s thinking. ‘No, you didn’t imagine it. Highschool sweethearts—’ as Richie loves to say himself. It’s kind of annoying. Cloying. All too _American Dream,_ like there’s nothing dark in the world.

‘And Sharon Lewis is like _super hot_, isn’t she?’ Robin asks.

He nods. That would be true, amber eyes, deep brown skin, pretty face, lovely smile, killer body, and on top of that a _wonderful personality_—

‘I just don’t get it,’ she sighs.

‘What?’ he asks, confused.

‘Not that you’re not, you know, _hot_—’ _what?_ ‘just—’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he ignores the little voice in the back of his head suggesting— _things_. No way. Just— _no_. Vanity, again, but—

‘He was looking at your ass,’ she says. _Flatly_.

‘_What?_’ Oh _God_.

‘When I got there. He was leaning back, staring at your ass— and he was getting a _really good look_ with you on your hands and knees in the bed of his truck like that—’ she smirks at him and he feels his face _burn_. ‘—with a look on his face like— like—’

‘Like _what_?’ he squawks.

‘Like—’ her face scrunches up, and then she says, ‘—like he wanted to do that thing you told me Carol did to you— _you know_— with his _mouth_— and he had a hardon. I’m sure of it—’

‘How would you know what a hardon looks like?’ he squeaks. This conversation is getting _surreal_.

‘I may not be interested in touching one, but I’ve seen them,’ she says, and before he can demand _where_ and whether_ he needs to beat anyone up_, she’s adding, ‘I’m still in _high school_, remember, boys are popping them everywhere in the halls—’

‘I’m pretty sure they weren’t when I was there—’ he says, weakly. _Were they_? Oh God. Was he just _surrounded by hard dicks all the time_? He’s not sure how he feels about that—

His own had always been, for the most part, _obedient_. In that way at least. Less _random, out of nowhere_ hardons in public, and more _hardons with provocation_— like with Tommy pressed against him. Or Billy existing in the same town as him. As long as no one he’s interested in is touching him or looking all _hot_ nearby he’s usually ok— _Oh God, what if he’d **actually** gotten a hardon in the locker room showers with Billy pressing against him_?

Well, for one, he wouldn’t be here having this conversation— so that’s a plus.

‘They _were_,’ she insists, ‘You probably didn’t notice because they were attached to guys that aren’t your _type_.’

‘I probably didn’t notice because I don’t go around staring at other guys’ dicks—’ he snaps, feeling horribly self-conscious and for more than one reason. Billy— Richie Lewis. It’s _confusing_. ‘—Apparently _unlike you_. Seriously Robin, _what the hell?_’

‘Just because I’m not interested doesn’t mean I was never curious,’ she replies, flippant. ‘Anyway, aside the point. Richie Lewis was— it wasn’t even _looking_, he was outright _leering _at you—’

The main problem is that he _believes her_. It would be great if he could laugh it off— You know, all _What have you been smoking and why aren’t you sharing?_ But. Yeah—

He thinks of Richie jerking off in his truck outside the house. Thinks of the way the man has always been almost _eager_ to attract his attention, ask for help, _show off_. Shirt off in all sorts of weather—

He should be flattered right? Richie Lewis is— well, his good points haven’t changed since the night before, and he did used to have a crush on the guy, but—

Why can’t he just be a _guy _about? Excited at the chance to get his dick wet instead of kind of creeped out?

‘Don’t tell me that—‘ he whines at her, trying to play it off like the news isn’t welcome but not like, you know, it’s as _unwelcome _as he finds it. ‘Dad’s hired him for some work, so he’ll be around the house all the time now and I’m going to be thinking— Anyway. You were probably wrong.’ Shit. He sounds as uncertain as he feels. ‘As you said, he’s _married_, and even if he wasn’t _why_ would he be looking at _me_?—' It’s going to be really pathetic if the answer to that is because he’s the only one _available_. Is he somehow sending out some bisexual signal that’s attracting the guy? Oh God. If he is he needs to work out how to not do that, like, _really soon_.

She looks at him for a moment, eyes roving over him in a way that frankly makes him kind of _uncomfortable_. It’s like she’s undressing him with her eyes, and not in a _sexy_ way— more like she’s pricing up a piece of _meat_.

Eventually she says ‘I think you’re sexy,’ she says, which is just, like _so unfair_ and kind of _outrageous _at this point— and maybe he gives her a _look _that suggests as much as he opens his mouth to tell her that ship has sailed onto an _ocean_ of Billy— but she’s rushing to add, ‘Wow that came out wrong. I didn’t mean _I_ think you’re sexy, or find you sexy— not that you’re not sexy, you’re just— you know— a _guy_. I meant— I think you, yourself, might be kind of sexy— or, at least, _guys_ find you sexy— um. Maybe I should stop now?’

He stares at her for a moment before he forces his attention back to the road. He just— _Is she making fun of him_? Robin likes making fun of him— but the expression is wrong— _She can’t be serious though, can she?_ Maybe she’s just trying to— _what?_

‘I—’ he begins, but then doesn’t know what to say, so—

—

Eventually, all the good manners his mother have trained into him rise to deal with the awkwardness, so he asks her about how her parents are. It comes out a bit formal, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She chatters away happily about these people he’ll probably never meet— because they’ll assume he’s her boyfriend and neither of them want to deal with the awkwardness of working out what to do about that.

Then Dustin’s in the car and doing enough chattering for all of them, and all he has to think about is how to convince the kid to stop going on about Star Wars to Erica before someone snaps and murders the guy.


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: I think only for mentions of dysfunctional/abusive family dynamics, but let me know if I missed any.
> 
> Finally we have Billy and Steve interacting again, wow, that took what feels like a very long forever. I hope you're all doing well, keeping safe, and keeping your spirits up. Life is amazingly surreal. Thank you all so much for reading, and the comments and kudos!

The Hopper-Byers’ is in a state of chaos when they arrive. They’re informed that Hopper had to go in to work by a Mrs Byers who seems to be trying to do three things at once. Nancy is there, chasing after her, going ‘Joyce, _Joyce, _just hand me the— _Joyce_,’ in a way that makes him think she’s probably trying to take control of the situation.

Mrs Byers isn’t exactly a perfectly _organised_ person— it must be driving Nancy nuts. His ex-girlfriend is, yeah, the exact _opposite_. She smiles at him, Nancy, a little tightly, but it’s still a smile, before her eyes flick over to Robin. The smile gets _artificial_. Nancy’s _good manners_ smile.

‘You’re Steve’s girlfriend, aren’t you? _Robin_? I think we met briefly in the mall parking lot—’

‘Er.’ Robin’s nose wrinkles up. ‘Um. Yes, _and no_. I _am_ Robin, but I’m _not_ Stevie’s girlfriend.’

Nancy frowns, blinks, then that smile returns. ‘Oh, I heard you were— um, so if you’re _not_—?’ She’s curious, he can still _tell_.

‘She’s my best friend, Nance,’ he tells her, then wonders if he should have called her _Nancy_. Is “Nance” too familiar, with all the things they’re now not?

He can see Nancy doesn’t believe him— but also can’t work out why they’d lie about Robin being his girlfriend. Probably best to get away from her then, Nancy isn’t too keen on things she doesn’t understand and he’s not in the mood to have her trying to pick him apart right now—

He and Robin start off helping Dustin and Lucas— the latter sulking because Max isn’t here yet— carting boxes from the pile in the living room to the rooms they’re supposed to be in— but it seems like every time he returns to the living room Jonathan pops up and tries to talk to him. Which would be _fine_, good, _great _even, but the poor guy seems to have no idea what to say and keeps glancing at Will— helping Mrs Byers work out what pictures she wants in the room— and Will keeps glancing back, with a _stern_ look on his face.

So. Yeah. Seems likely the kid has had a word with Jonathan about the fact he said something about the guy not liking him and now Jonathan is trying to do what Will wants and buddy up to him. It’s all forced and awkward and kind of terrible but he tries to ignore it, tries to be _friendly_, because Jonathan’s cool— not _hot_, not like Billy, but a cool guy. _Smart_. A better fit for Nance—

Except it’d not that long at all before he just _can’t bear it_— He doesn’t want Jonathan to feel like he has to be _nice_ to him. It’s not real. It’s just—

And it’s not like he’s forgotten what he said to the guy, before Jonathan beat him up— and every time he catches even a glimpse of Mrs Byers it makes him feel guilty— and of course Jonathan could never really like him. How could he after— and—

Yeah. And then Nancy comes in the room and starts squinting at him and Robin, trying to work them out, so he makes a dignified retreat—

By which he means he abandons Robin to help Dustin in the new garage and goes and joins El and Mike in unpacking her room— and it’s not _cowardice_, not exactly, but he can’t help it if he knows neither Nancy nor Jonathan want to spend too much time in Mike’s company. Kid’s kind of a shit— a _bossy_ shit— He’s kind of like Nancy in a way— in as much as the two of them kind of have personalities that remind him of some of the absolutely _terrifying _women on most of Hawkins’ committees and that do most of Hawkins’ good deeds.

The two of them would run a mean charity drive— if they didn’t kill each other first.

Also Mike and El are still kind of gross about each other— clingy currently, and prone to fits of uncoordinated young teen kissing and looking at each other like cross-eyed cows. Not what he really wants to be around either, but neither of them is his brother/kind of step-sister/possible future brother-in-law, so it’s maybe a bit less icky for him. Maybe. It’s still pretty icky—

They do kind of cut it out pretty quickly, though Mike’s now looking thoroughly pissy and so much like his sister it kind of _hurts_. For a moment he misses her, misses the lie he was trying to sell himself— He had wanted to see a future for them. A house. Maybe _kids_—

Everything’s going fine, _he’s _fine—

‘Steve?’

He looks up, smiles at El. She’s standing there nervously, a piece of paper in her hands. ‘Yeah?’

‘Do you want to see a picture of my mom?’

Oh. It’s not paper, it’s a _photo_. ‘Of course,’ he says, taking it from her. Like pretty much everything that’s happened when he hasn’t been there in person he’s heard about what happened to her mom, but isn’t sure the details are right. The kids had been shouting over each other— Mike the loudest and most _offended_— and everything had kind of muddled into confusing tragedy.

He glances at the picture and feels everything lock up.

His head feels full, _strange_— a face that he almost thinks he knows, just for a second, staring up at him. From somewhere very far away he hears himself say, ‘She looks very _kind_, like you.’

El makes a pleased little noise, taking the photo back and smiling down at it sadly. ‘She was— _is_— kind. I think.’

For a moment it’s like he can _feel_ the hurt in her and he wants, really, really, really _wants_ to do something to help, to _fix it_, but there’s nothing he can do. It makes him feel— weirdly _guilty_.

It’s sort of strange after that. A weird tenseness in the room that maybe he is the only one who can feel— the two kids seem fine, are acting perfectly normal, but his head feels heavy, leaden, and he could almost swear it was raining, a storm cracking over the sky, even though it’s clear and blue and the day is hot.

Then El needs help putting stuff on the top shelf of her closet— since her powers still haven’t come back— and as he takes the winter quilt from her their hands brush and it’s like a bomb goes off inside his skull.

—

The next thing he knows is shouting and pain. Everything’s confusing, his ears ringing, his thoughts airy and slow, so it takes him an embarrassingly long time to realise that he’s on the floor, slumped against the bed, Dustin, Robin and Will elbowing each other to be the one to check on him. ‘I’m the actual grown-up here!’ Robin is shouting.

‘No, you’re not! You’re not even out of high school!’ is Dustin’s reply to that.

It’s made even more confusing by the fact absolutely everyone else seems to be in the room as well, also shouting, and fussing over— ‘El?’ he manages.

‘Oh thank God!’ Dustin squawks. ‘Steve! Steve! Are you alright! You with us buddy?! You really need to stop getting knocked out, one of these days you’re going to wake up with brain damage—'

‘What happened?’ he asks as he tries to sit up properly, before sinking back with a hiss. Oh wow, he has a _headache_. It feels like a migraine or something— like when he woke up after Billy beat the shit out of him. Fucking _awful_, it’s like being a kid again and having Uncle Martin standing over him all disappointed while his temples throbbed and he tried not to vomit on the guy’s shoes.

_Fuck Uncle Martin_.

His question prompts a bit more shouting, but not directed at him this time, before Dustin is telling him that, ‘There was a bang and the whole house shook and we all came rushing up here and you were all on the floor and El has a nose bleed, so we’re thinking her powers must be coming back and somehow she—’ the kid wrinkles his nose, ‘— like, _zapped you_, or something. Because Mike’s fine. Knocked on his ass but fine. And you don’t look like you hit your head, but— What do you remember?’

‘Dustin,’ he whines, ‘shut up. My head hurts.’

There’s more shouting then— or maybe just _loud voices_— or maybe just _voices_. Everything seems loud. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets himself sort of list over until he’s lying on the floor, covering his head with his arms.

Things remain painful and confusing, it all too hard to think— he’s being pulled at, he thinks, pulled to his feet— even though the change in posture sends nauseating waves of pain through his head and makes the world whirl around him. ‘Let’s get him to the couch,’ he thinks someone says.

‘Down the stairs?’ is that Lucas?

There’s more voices but they’re all happening at once and he doesn’t have the energy to try and understand them. He feels warmth by his side, smells— ‘Robin,’ and then a moment later the awkward form of Jonathan on his other side.

Everything kind of lurches into blood red and black for a bit, and the next thing he knows El is peering at him, a smear of dried blood on her upper lip and tears running out of her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she’s whimpering. ‘I didn’t mean to— I’m so sorry Steve.’

‘You didn’t— _Not your fault _kid,’ he manages, waving a hand towards her uncoordinatedly to pet her on the shoulder. For some reason she doesn’t look that comforted, but a moment later Dustin and Robin are both in his face again, Dustin demanding to know how he is, Robin petting his head gently and trying to get him to drink a glass of water. He pushes the glass away and squeezes his eyes shut, insisting ‘I’m _fine_,’ even though he’s pretty sure he’s _not_. What he needs is a couple of Percocet and a sleep—

‘I think I should get him home,’ he hears Robin say. Yes. Great idea. He wants to be home, where it’s only him and her and he doesn’t have to _try so hard_ while his head is killing him. ‘Stevie, is it ok if I drive the beemer? I’ll be careful with it.’

‘Of course,’ he replies, reaching out and tangling their fingers.

She squeezes his hand, then lets it go to get a grip on his arm, ‘Ok, up we get, big boy.’

A moment later he feels more hands on him, Jonathan again he thinks, and Dustin, then he’s back on his feet, swaying as the world goes red and black again. ‘Maybe you should stay here, he can lie down on our bed—’ Mrs Byers suggests. ‘I think someone should keep an eye on him.’

‘I’ll stay with him at his place,’ Robin says. ‘if he gets any worse I’ll ring an ambulance—’

‘Are you sure?’ Mrs Byers asks.

‘I’m fine,’ he pipes up, trying to reassure everyone. ‘It’s just a headache— nowhere near as bad as that time Billy knocked me out—’ not quite true, but—

‘You _really_ need to stop getting knocked out,’ he hears Dustin repeat, sounding worried.

‘I’m fine. I really am,’ he insists.

‘Ok, well fine or not, let’s get you out to the car,’ Robin says—

It’s not— well. He’s suddenly reminded that he’s bigger than everyone in the house. Even Mike— who is shooting up like a beanpole. A _skinny_ beanpole. It would be great if he could just, you know, _walk _properly, but he can’t seem to keep his balance— or remain entirely conscious— so it turns into a kind of collaborative effort to get him off the couch and to the front door—

Probably the same collaborative process that got him from El’s room, down the stairs, and onto the couch— but he wasn’t even _semi-conscious_ for that one, and somehow being kind of awake makes the whole process worse and more stomach turning.

The door opens and he blinks at Max’s startled face before blacking out again for a second at her _shriek_ of ‘BILLY!!!!!!!’

A moment later he hears heavy footsteps thumping up the stairs, feels Robin and Jonathan? being pushed out of the way as a warm, _familiar_ body crowds in close, holding him up. ‘What the fuck happened?’ he hears snarled as a warm, broad, calloused, _strong_ hand pets at his face and head, rubbing over skin and hair in search of an injury.

There’s yet more shouting, making his head _throb_, making it all too easy to sort of _wilt_ against that strong— wow, so _strong_— body and let Billy hold him up. ‘Did you get _bigger_?’ he asks, blinking blearily at the blond. He seems kind of— even _musclier_ than before? How is that possible?

But then El’s somehow managed to force her way through the crowd to tell the guy that her powers seem to be coming back and that she hurt him somehow and now he’s got a really bad headache. She sounds like she’s going to cry again—‘It’s not her fault,’ he mumbles against the blond’s throat. ‘Please Billy, make sure she knows it’s not her fault.’

‘Of course it’s not her fucking _fault_,’ Billy says in that tone that brooks no arguments. Billy has declared it and so it is. He relaxes against the other guy’s certainty.

‘I’m driving him home,’ Robin says. ‘So if you could just help him to the beemer—’

‘How are you going to get him out of it when you get there?’ Billy demands, arm tightening around him. ‘No offence, but the lot of you together seemed to be having trouble just getting him to the door.’

‘I’m plenty strong,’ Robin insists, and then, after a tiny pause, ‘Anyway, Richie Lewis is back at his place doing— _something_. He can help.’

He feels Billy tense up. ‘_Richie_—’ the guy murmurs. ‘What the fuck is _he_ doing at the Harringtons’?’

‘I didn’t know you knew him?’ Robin says with a funny tone in her voice. She sounds kind of _amused_. ‘He’s doing yard work for Stevie’s dad.’

‘Oh, I’ve _heard of him_,’ Billy snaps, darkly, and he’s wondering _what the fuck?_ But then Billy is insisting to come along too, in case “_Richie_ isn’t there anymore.”

‘And how will you be getting back here to pick up your car?’ Robin asks, still sounding _amused_.

‘I’ll _walk_,’ Billy snaps. Shifting his grip on him, and then pretty much _carrying_ him down the front steps. In fact he thinks Billy _could_ carry him, just pick him up and—

More chatter starts up but he tunes it out, focusing on not being too much of a burden to a guy who seems like he wouldn’t even notice if he suddenly gained ten pounds. Wow is Billy _strong_. Was Billy always this strong? If his head wasn’t trying to split down the seams this would be doing funny things to him right now.

At the car things degenerate into an argument about exactly who is driving him home. _Robin_ in Robin’s opinion, _Billy_ in Billy’s— Robin seems to be winning, if only because she doesn’t hesitate to shove her hand into his pocket and pull out his keys.

They then start squabbling again about whether Billy even needs to come with them— it’s making his head _throb_. He whines, hunching down and burying his face against Billy’s shoulder, hiding his eyes from the light and hoping like hell they’ll both just _shut up_.

Thank God for Max. ‘Ok!’ she snaps, making him slit his eyes open in time to see her snatching the keys off Robin and unlocking the car. ‘Get him in the back seat then _you_,’ she hands the keys back to Robin, ‘drive him home—’ at Billy’s loud protests she adds, ‘Follow them in your car, that way you can get to the pool after you’ve helped him inside. Ok?’

With a bit more grumbling— especially in the face of Robin’s _triumph_— Billy agrees to the plan. The blond gets the backdoor of the car open and helps him inside, strong hands steadying him, touching him, gentle. ‘You’ll be ok,’ the guy says, and there’s something strange to it. Like it’s a _wish_ more than a certainty. ‘Fuck, you’re gonna get yourself knocked silly one day and then where’ll we be?’

‘You will make sure El knows it’s not her fault?’ he says into the warm air between them as Billy leans over him to fasten his seatbelt.

‘For fuck’s sake Harrington,’ Billy breathes almost against the side of his face, and then, ‘_Steve_.’ The tone is weird. Weird like almost _affectionate_— ‘Keep your eyes shut. _Rest_. You’ll be fine. Don’t worry about anyone else, alright? _Jesus_.’

As the car door shuts he hears Billy doing what he wanted, repeating that it wasn’t El’s fault, and then Robin is getting in the car, starting it and pulling out from the curb. She’s muttering to herself. Quietly. Too quietly for him to understand. ‘You good?’ he asks her, and then, ‘Sorry about this—’

‘Don’t be sorry!’ she tells him. ‘Jesus Stevie, you scared the crap out of me for a moment there— It was like when the Russians dragged you into the room, you know, you _did not look good_. But you’re ok, right? And if you’re not—’ she takes a deep breath. ‘We will deal with it. Yeah?’

‘Mm,’ he mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut like Billy told him to do.

After a long moment he hears her speak again. Quietly. ‘I’m starting to think I really was wrong about him—’

‘Billy?’ he guesses, because as far as he knows she hasn’t declared any particular opinion about any other guys.

‘Yeah—’ she sighs. ‘But I don’t— Stevie I still don’t like him, and I’m sorry about that. I don’t think— He hasn’t done _enough_, not with the things he _did_ do— not enough to make me sure he’s _safe_. He _hurt you_— I mean, maybe I wasn’t there for it, and maybe I didn’t _see _it, but everything I’ve heard— and I know he hasn’t recently, but I also know he _broke Tommy H’s face_ the other day_—_ and I’m not saying that prick didn’t deserve it. He deserved it if anyone does— not that I think violence is ever the answer— except when it’s against evil Russians and eldritch monstrosities of course— but I don’t like the idea of Billy— you know, _doing shit like that_— what if he—?— and I just don’t know what he _can_ do that’ll make me— and then him _ignoring you_, which I know has been upsetting you, even if you _won’t say anything_— I just— I— Goddammit Stevie, I don’t know what I’m supposed to _do_—’

The thing is— he has _no idea _what she’s talking about and his head hurts too much for him to try and work it out, so he lets the blackness drag him down, falling into a light, nauseated, doze— being jolted into painful bursts of wakefulness every time the car goes over a bump or turns a corner.

_He’s dreaming, or at least he thinks he is, about the smell of spilled wine, burnt food, the record skipping in the turntable, Uncle Martin shouting, voice **outraged**, his dad laughing, his mom cold, angry in the way she gets when she’s got all her defences up, and in the background the soft sound of a woman crying—_


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For domestic violence, violent child abuse, and attempted murder. Please let me know if I missed any.
> 
> PLEASE READ: I'm not sure if any of you reading this were reading the fics I was writing last year, but if you were you'll know my dog got very sick then- almost died actually- She's still not really well, though she's still with me, but she has been declining recently. I am not sure what is going to happen, or what impact this- and everything else going on- is ultimately going to have on my mental health. I do know that I have enjoyed writing this story and knowing that people are enjoying it, and I don't want to leave you all in the lurch. Also, I'm going to have to go back to Billy's POV and there'll be some more Steve-less chapters, just after we escaped last time. Sigh. So I've made the decision to use this time when nothing much else is happening, and we're all back in lockdown here as Covid rampages about in a "second wave" that I think is more accurately described as the"first wave" as the first wave we had was mainly returning travellers, to focus on getting the story to the point where Billy and Steve are actually together- romantically- before posting the next chapter. So there'll be a break now for maybe a month or two? considering the pace of my writing currently, and then the next time you see this story updated you can be assured that whatever annoying Billy alone stuff you have to get through to catch up with Steve's POV there will be Billy and Steve interactions afterwards. I think then I'll probably post twice a week, because if I post all at once some of you might miss the update. To be fully honest at that point I may have to have a bit of a hiatus as I'm kind of- well. Anyway. I promise though that Billy and Steve will be together before I do. Thank you all so much for reading, and for the comments and kudos!

He’s being jolted again, lifted out of the car. He scrabbles at Billy’s arms, clinging, for a second, just a split second, afraid he’s going to fall— ‘Yeah. I don’t think he’s going to be able to make it up all those stairs— Steve? Steve, you with me?’

‘Billy?’ Wow his eyes are _blue_. Pretty eyes. Long lashes—

A quirk of one darker brow, ‘If I sling you over my shoulder—?’

‘I’ll puke down your back,’ he answers, honestly.

A rueful smile, then, ‘Ok. Bridal style it is—’ which is the only warning he gets before he’s scooped up into Billy’s arms and the guy is actually _carrying him_ up to the front door. He tries to focus his addled mind on how ridiculous they must look— he’s still _taller_ than Billy for Christ’s sake— but it’s pretty much impossible when the alternative is to guiltily enjoy the blond’s strength.

It would be better if he didn’t feel like hell— but if he didn’t feel like hell it wouldn’t be happening— Also he should probably be feeling bad about this right about now, but he’s feeling too stupid to worry about things like that.

It’s all just pain and how _strong_ Billy is. Everything. His entire world—

Robin scurries past to open the front door, closing it behind them, then scurrying to catch up when Billy just keeps going, climbing the stairs way too easily for someone carrying a pretty much fully-grown guy. ‘His room’s—’ he hears her begin.

‘I know where it is,’ the blond dismisses her.

‘_How?_’ she squawks.

Billy doesn’t answer.

His enjoyment fades on the staircase, the jolt of the steps leaving him feeling sick and sweaty and kind of cold and clammy. He swallows down bile—

‘You gonna puke Steve?’ the blond asks, looking down at him kind of _alarmed_.

‘Hopefully _not_,’ he answers, then, as Billy steps out onto the top landing, ‘Can we stop at my mom’s room before mine?’ _Percocet_.

Her door opens with a waft of stale _Jardins de Bagatelle_ by Guerlain and the stink of Gauloises. It’s almost sterile, otherwise, his mom’s room— white, minimalist. _Harsh_. Not much furniture and everything very _neat_— It suddenly occurs to him that it’s weird, isn’t it? It’s probably weird.

His mom has three bedrooms in the house, this one— where she actually sleeps— the one she pretends is hers— very stylish, modern, open fireplace— then the softer, frilly, _feminine_ one she pretends she shares with his father— all of it lie layered on lie and the layer you see depending on how _close_ you really are to all of them.

Robin does the honours of fishing out the Percocet from the mess of scattered bullets in the drawer and putting them back. He swallows two dry. ‘Let’s get out of here before we all get in trouble,’ he says once the pills are back where they belong.

‘Good—’ Robin’s voice cracks, her eyes a little wide, skittering around the corners of the room, gaze lingering on the gun safe. She clears her throat. ‘Good idea.’

In his room Billy lays him down on the bed with a surprising amount of gentleness. He wants to curl up on his side, but _shoes_. So he toes at his right sneaker, trying to kick it off, before the blond grabs at his foot and pulls off the shoe, stripping off the other one before hesitating, leaning over him—

‘What?’ he asks, peering up at the guy through the haze of pain in his head.

The blond clears his throat, the word, ‘Jeans?’ escaping, voice sounding deep and gruff and kind of _cracked_.

‘Um—’ he glances down at himself, at the pants he has on, briefly thinks that_ yes, he would be more comfortable if he wasn’t wearing them_, but then— ‘I can manage?’ it comes out weak. Uncertain. Still—

He really shouldn’t be letting the blond undress him.

The moment’s a kind of weird mirror of _that night_. The one when Billy turned into a monster and then turned up in his pool— But he’s even less in a state to really know what’s going on or keep control of things—

‘Don’t be—‘ Billy begins, clears his throat, tries again, ‘Don’t be—’ and then gives up and just grabs for his waistband and he can’t help shudder, just a little, at the feeling of warm fingers brushing his belly as the blond quickly undoes his pants and starts pulling them down his legs—

It’s one of those confusing moment again, where he’s sure he’s misreading Billy’s _interest_, but— _but_— Blunt fingers seem to brush his skin when they don’t have to, seem to linger near thighs, behind knees, at the skin just above his socks—

A throat clears. They both startle. Billy leaping back like he’s been burned, the jeans slipping from his grip to land on the floor.

_Robin_.

She’s got yet another _look_ on her face. ‘Ok, I think I can take it from here,’ she says, arms crossed over her chest.

‘Er—’ is all Billy manages, eyes very, very _wide_.

She uncrosses her arms to start flapping them at him, shooing the blond out of the room like she’s shooing a stray cat out of her yard. Billy could just resist, _ignore her_, and he half expects the guy to do that, but—

A moment later he’s alone, lying on his bed in t-shirt, briefs and socks, trying to catch his breath— Wow. _Ok_. Wow— Maybe things will make sense when the Percocet kicks in, because his head is still killing him, and his thinking is still slower than usual, and he’s _one hundred percent completely totally absolutely sure_ Billy was not— You know. Looking at him like he wanted to fuck him.

Yeah—

—

After a while he starts to doze off, vaguely wondering where Robin is.

_That scruffy, skinny Billy is standing over the bed, looking down at him—_

‘Well, he was right about Richie Lewis not being here,’ being huffed out in irritation as Robin breezes back into the room wakes him back up. ‘Dammit. You doing alright Stevie?’

‘Head hurts,’ he replies.

She makes a soft sound of sympathy, ‘You should probably try and sleep. You need anything first?’

‘A glass of water?’ he suggests, then tries to sit up, before collapsing back onto the bed with a groan, squeezing his eyes shut and just managing to suggest, ‘But I can get it for myself?’

‘Yeah, somehow I don’t think so,’ she replies. ‘Be right back with it—’ a pause and then, ‘I think I’ll read. Do you know where I left that book?’

‘What book?’ he squints up at her

‘You know, _that book_?’ she says, as if it helps.

He sighs. ‘Robin you’ve left, like, _eight_ different books here in the last week—‘ It’s like with the movies, piles of her _stuff _just seem to be migrating over all the time. ‘Whichever one it is it’s probably in the den.’

‘Be right back—’

He’s asleep before she gets back.

—

He feels fine the next morning, good as new, as if whatever it was never even happened. And everything’s fine. It’s all _fine_— Except, of course, he then doesn’t see Billy again for days. And it’s—

It’s _fine._

He’s fine—

He’s fine for the rest of the day, when it seems like everyone_ not-Billy_ feels the need to ring him first thing to make sure he’s ok— which actually makes him smile, for a bit. Until the _not-Billy_ thing sinks in. He’s fine when Dustin and Erica show up while he and Robin are lounging in the den and she’s having what she calls a _Quintuple H Hangout— wait, no, that’s redundant— but Quintuple H on its own sounds weird. Doesn’t it sound weird Stevie?_— interrogating him about which actors he finds hot— _I don’t know! Seriously. How can you tell what they’re really like, you know? Like, at least **half** the time it’s stuntmen actually doing the— **No, **I am **not** just attracted to violent psychos. **Jesus** Robin_— to start going on about him knocking himself out and how Billy is apparently _unnaturally strong_— or at least that’s what Erica’s _heard_— _So is he a zombie or what? Or is this some other Hawkins weirdness?_— Which means more _deflection_— and then start going on about how El has her powers back now.

He’s fine on Tuesday, when Dustin, Mike, Lucas, Max, and El show up while he’s cleaning the kitchen to carry on about the fact that apparently Will’s got a _mullet_ now, as well as a small set of weights, and was last seen _going for a run_— _This is because we didn’t pay enough attention to him_, Mike insists, _We should have just played his **stupid campaign**_— He tries to convince them that it’s ok, that Will is allowed to explore his identity, that it doesn’t mean he’s not _Will_, not their _friend_ anymore— but they’re too busy being obnoxiously dramatic about it.

At least eventually they stop, even if it’s only for long enough for El to move a few things with her mind, smiling widely at him as she wipes up the blood and the other kids crow in satisfaction. Of course then it’s back to whining about Will.

It’s annoying.

_Mike_ is especially annoying, but that’s maybe only because he keeps having the weirdest urge to take the boy aside and ask if everything’s ok. Mike’s _Mike_. He’s never exactly ok, but as far as he can see there’s nothing more wrong with him than usual other than this Will based freak out. Sometimes he does not understand himself.

—

He’s fine on Wednesday, when Robin’s busy with some friends from band and the phone won’t stop ringing, but every time he picks it up no one’s there— just that weird, creepy echo from Uncle Martin’s phone call— until it drives him out of the house and he ends up spending the afternoon in the yard, helping Richie Lewis— who doesn’t seem to be perving on him, but who knows— work out the best place for his dad’s new sauna.

He’s even fine on Thursday, when the kids seem to want him to drive them all over town as they desperately drag an amused Will to all their old hangouts— As if they’re trying to convince him to return to his nerdy ways.

Kid looks good though. Mullet and tight jeans and muscle-t— Someone’s basing their look on the best looking blond in town— And, while Will is still _Will_— A kid. Not _Billy. _He’s getting a glimpse at a Will that’ll probably have all the girls (and boys) panting after him.

At the diner, in the moments the other kids are distracted and not squawking at the kid, they share a _look_, kind of rueful on the kid’s part, _acknowledging_ on his— and then he buys Will another milkshake— which he hands over with an _I like the hair_— and gets everyone squawking again about _favouritism_.

Though, yeah, _again_ he finds himself having to stop himself from asking Mike if he’s ok. What the hell?

He’s then fine through talking to Mrs Byers about getting Will a key to his place, pleased, though he tries not to show how pleased, that she doesn’t think it’s a dumb idea— as long as he’s really ok with it. _Because you’ve done so much for those kids already Steve, **so much**, you will say something if they’re being a nuisance, won’t you? I don’t like thinking we’re taking advantage of you_— Which, of course they’re not. He _likes_ being helpful. He even likes the kids, even though they can be absolute little _shits_.

She agrees that Will seems to need some space, and is he’s happy letting the boy retreat to his place then, _At least we all know where he is, and he can get in a lot less trouble over at yours than I worry he will if he starts hanging around town by himself_— There had been a strange kind of _worry_ in her eyes at that, and he doesn’t know what to make of it, but in the end maybe it doesn’t matter since they agreed he’d get the key made and drop it off on the weekend.

He’s even fine that evening, after Robin’s gone home after dinner and a truly _incomprehensible_ movie he fell asleep halfway through. Fine as he showers to wash the sweat of a disgustingly _hot_ summer day off, and blinks, and is sure, just for a moment that _Billy_ is there, in the bathroom with him, _looking_— but not _Billy_ Billy. That other, skinny, beardy Billy— but another blink and the guy’s gone—

And he’s going nuts—

He keeps seeing this other Billy. Sitting across from him at breakfast, staring at him in the bathroom, watching him when he lies down in bed— it’s only for a split second each time. Only—

Fuck. He really must miss Billy, huh?

Yep. He is definitely going _nuts_—

But he’s _fine_. Fine, fine, _fine_ all the way until he crawls into bed.

—

The phone ringing wakes him up.

It’s Uncle Martin. He’s _sure of it_.

It _pisses him off_—

He climbs out of bed and stomps over to the phone, picking it up with a snapped, ‘_What?!’_

Nothing— no, not _nothing_, the sound of someone _breathing_— but quick breaths, panicked and stuttering and— Wow, ok, he is absolutely _pathetic_, because he knows, just _knows_ who it is, recognises the sound— ‘Billy?! What’s wrong?’

‘Ah,’ a tiny, crack of noise, then another breath, deep, shuddering—

‘_Billy_—?' Shit. Something’s definitely—

‘He hit Max’ the blond’s voice sounds _broken_. ‘He hit Max and almost killed Susan.’

‘_What_?! Max’s mom?!’ he demands, and then, ‘Billy, where are you? Are you ok? What happened? Where’s _Max_?’

‘H-hospital,’ is stuttered out. ‘We’re—’ another deep, shuddering breath. ‘We’re at the hospital. They took Susan away— He _broke_ her nose— Max’s— I mean, she hasn’t been seen yet, but you can fucking _tell_ it’s broken—’ the blond trails off.

Oh _God_. ‘Your dad?’ he manages to bring himself to say. It makes him feel sick— but maybe he’s wrong, maybe—

He’s not wrong. ‘I’m going to kill him,’ Billy breathes down the line. ‘I was _going to_ kill him— I was. Fuck. _Steve_—’ it’s so _plaintive_. Makes his chest hurt. His heart. ‘—Steve, I was coming apart. I was— I— and then I saw her. She was bleeding. _Bleeding_. Bleeding and crying and _Susan_ was just lying there like he broke her— I think he _broke her_— and— I had to get her out of there, had to get them _safe_— safe. Hah! So I brought them here, but I can’t— _I can’t Steve_— I’m coming apart again. I’m coming apart and I’m going to go _kill him_, I know I am, and she _needs me_ right now, so I need _you_. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, but I need you to come here because if you don’t I’m going to go kill him and I need— I need—’ he breaks off into a kind of low, anguished, whine.

‘I’m on my way,’ he says, heart in his throat. Oh God, _Billy_— ‘Billy, I’m on my way, ok? Ok?’

A quiet, pained sound of affirmation.

‘Have you called Hopper?’ he asks, because— aside from the Billy maybe turning into a monster and killing his dad thing— this is a police matter, this is fucking _attempted murder or something_ and _child abuse_— Oh God,_ Max_— **_Max’s mom_**— and Hopper— Hopper is a _good guy_. He’ll _fix it_. He’ll make sure Neil Hargrove is _never, ever, **ever** _allowed near any of them again—

‘I don’t— I _can’t_ think— I don’t remember—’ Billy replies, sounding small, _scared_. ‘I don’t— and he _won’t believe me_. Fucking pigs _never believe me_. They just take fucking _Neil’s_ side— drag me back there like it’s _my _fault— and this time he’ll say I did it, if he’s in trouble he always says I did it— and he’ll do his _war hero_ act. Good fucking _patriotic _American— they’re not even _his_ medals Steve! Half of them are from the pawn shop and the other half were _Uncle Harrys_! Fucking _liar_— I should rip his fucking—’

A blurt of sound escapes him, that same old comforting hum. He wants to make it better, he wants so badly to make it _better_, to make it so Billy isn’t hurting any more— He hears the blond sigh, almost _feels_ him relax over the phone— ‘I’ll ring him,’ he suggests, waiting for the protest that doesn’t come. ‘I’ll ring him and explain everything. He won’t blame you, he won’t take your dad’s side— I promise. Ok? I _promise._’

A pause, and then, ‘Ok,’ and ‘Then you’re coming here, right?’

‘_Right_.’

It’s _so hard_ to hang up the phone, but he has to, and then he has to take a deep, _very deep_, breath of his own before he dials the Hopper-Byers new number. It almost rings out, but then Jonathan answers, sounding half out of breath and kind of annoyed.

‘Hello?! Who is this? It’s— _do you know what time it is_?’

No. And he doesn’t really care either. ‘Jonathan I need you to get Hopper.’

‘_Steve_?’ the guy squawks. ‘What the _hell_? What’s going on? Is it—?’ Great. It sounds like he’s starting to panic.

‘It’s not the Upside Down or anything,’ he rushes to reassure the guy. ‘Just— _please get Hopper_. Ok?’

A moment later he hears what he thinks is Mrs Byers demanding to know if everything is ok. Then he hears Nancy. Then he hears Jonathan telling them it’s him and that he wants to talk to Hopper—

‘Why? What’s happened?!’ he hears Mrs Byers asking, before she snatches the receiver off her son and repeats the questions to him.

‘I’ll explain later,’ he says. Maybe. Depends what Billy wants people to know, but they don’t need to know that— ‘Just— _Please _Mrs Byers, I really need to talk to Hop—’

The sound of the receiver being snatched again. ‘Hopper here.’

‘Billy’s dad’s really hurt Max’s mom and hit _Max_ and broke her nose and they’re all at the hospital!’ he blurts out, wincing at how _young_ he sounds. Like he wants a grown up to deal with the situation. _Fix _it.

‘**_WHAT?_**’ Hopper roars, starting up a chattering of half heard questions in the background. _In a minute Joyce, a minute_— he hears the man say, before turning his attention back to the phone.

He repeats what he said, a bit slower this time, wincing at the way his voice shakes. Oh God. _He needs to get to Billy_—

When he’s done there’s a second’s pause and then, ‘They’re at the hospital?’ Hopper asks for confirmation.

He makes a noise of agreement— Oh wow. He thinks maybe he’s about to start _crying_— can’t have any of that. He has to be strong. Has to be— _Billy needs him_.

‘Ok, I’m heading there now—’

‘Wait!’ he blurts, and then, at Hopper’s demand of _what?_ ‘Um— Billy said his dad will act like it’s his fault and—’ how did the blond put it? ‘—Um— act like he’s a war hero, even though he’s not— and maybe show you some medals? But they’re not _his_ medals— and, um— Billy’s dad hits him— you can ask the kids if you need proof— and— and— I know he beat me up and everything, but he’s not— he wouldn’t do that to _Max_—’

Hopper’s voice is surprisingly gentle when he says, ‘It’s ok kid. I’m not going to go leaping to conclusions. I’ve seen the guy with his sister— It’s going to be ok, ok? I’ll deal with it.’

‘Ok,’ he almost whispers back. ‘Um. I’ll see you at the hospital then?’

A pause, then. ‘It’s ok. _I’ll_ deal with it. You don’t need to be there—’

He interrupts the man with ‘_Billy needs me_.’

Another pause, then, in an odd tone, ‘Billy—'

‘_Needs me_,’ he reiterates.

After a moment, ‘Huh,’ and then, soft and strangely contemplative Hopper adds, ‘Ok— I’ll— uh— I’ll see you soon.’


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For dysfunctional family relationships, domestic/family violence, internalised victim blaming, please let me know if I missed any. 
> 
> Hi everyone, long time no see. I'm sorry to everyone who left a comment in the last month, I haven't been checking that inbox so I missed them all until today. I had a bit of writer's block on this story, so it took longer than I predicted, but I've succeeded in writing ahead to the point Steve and Billy get together. I'll be posting about twice a weak until I reach that point- I'm aiming for once over the weekend and once mid week- and then this fic will be going on hiatus. I'm not sure when, or if, I'll be writing any more- I'm sorry to say I feel a bit burned out on this story right now. Still, I cannot express how much appreciate everyone who's stuck with it this far, thank you all so much for reading, and for the comments and kudos!

He does not wake anywhere near Steve’s house. Instead he wakes up in _his own Goddamn bed_. It’s fucking _freaky_.

It makes him feel like something’s _wrong_— which is kind of fucked up, since you’d think waking up in your own bed instead of in the woods— or out by the hottest guy in town’s pool— would be the exact opposite— Hah. Maybe you can get used to _anything_.

He’s feeling kind of— _off_, because of it. And then, he goes looking for Max and breakfast and finds fucking Neil and Susan, and has his dad _tell_ him that they’re all spending the day together.

He has _work_. Max, apparently, is due at the Byers— but Neil is unreasonable.

In the end he thinks it’s Susan’s chilly insistence that she thought her husband was the type of man always to _honour a promise_ that gets his dad to let up— but only after the man _stands over him_ while he rings the pool and has to beg for the morning off. _Beg_. And he does even get _Adam_— no, he gets their fucking _ass_ of a supervisor and pretty much has to _humiliate_ himself and then listen to the guy go on and on and _on_ about responsibility and _letting the team down_.

Fuck the team. With as many hours as he’s been working recently he is basically the entire fucking team _himself_— and maybe Adam. _He and Adam_ are the fucking _team_.

It means he is in a _foul_ mood.

But, then, _Neil_ is in a foul mood, so is Susan, and of course _Max_— Max who wants to be helping El and little Byers unpack, not stuck with— and it is _stuck_. They’re all stuck with Neil.

He feels it like he never has before. Him and Max but also _Susan_—

It’s his dad. His dad is the _problem_.

You know, back before Uncle Harry he used to think it was _him_—

Even _after_, even though he could remember the man’s more often not drunken ramblings about how Neil was always that way, born _bad_, that he was a _good kid_ and _don’t let your dad tell you otherwise Billy, you gotta be **strong**, men like that live to tear everyone around them down— you just gotta remember it’s **him**, it’s always been **him, **Neil was born with the Goddamn **devil **in him_— there’s always been this little bit of him, somewhere, a little bit he does his fucking _best_ to ignore— that tells him that Neil’s fine. That _he’s_ the problem, that if he could just change, be different, be _good_ his dad would—

But that voice has been mighty quiet since the night he escaped the Mind Flayer, quiet in a way he’s only just noticed.

Yeah. Neil’s the fucking _problem_.

He wonders if the old man can feel it, their _resentment_, as they all sit down in silence and eat Susan’s rubbery pancakes— and he knows, he just _knows _Max is thinking about Steve’s cooking too, and how it has never, _never_, not once, not since the defeat of the Mind Flayer, felt like this when it was them and Steve. Hah.

He feels more at home, more safe, more like what it’s supposed to feel like with _family_ when he’s with the brunet, with Max, with Erica, even with every single one of the shitty kids and _Robin_ than he does sitting at the table with his own _father_.

After the torturously silent breakfast Neil decides they’re all going to the Big Buy, all going shopping together as a family, all of them helping out his wife— a woman who is all but flinching away from him in _disgust_ the moment he gets close— with her wifely chores.

He almost tells his dad to go fuck himself, that it’s _him_ that’s done most of the shopping recently, that it’s _his _fucking money that’s been keeping them fed since Susan’s been so busy with work and whatever it is that keeps _her_ out of the house. Dread probably.

They must look— Jesus, he has _no idea_ what they must look like as they pile out of his dad’s car and into the supermarket. Half fucking _crazy_ probably— Susan still playing the Ice Queen, Neil looking fucking _twitchy_ with barely supressed rage, Max in a sulk, him—

Yeah. He fucking _hates_ being passenger in a car when the driver and the person in the driver’s seat are fighting. Even if Susan and Neil weren’t _fighting_ fighting, no fists being thrown. At least it was _her_ driving. Fuck. His dad driving him anywhere makes him feel—

Sick.

And, on top of that, he’s stuck hoping his dad’s not about to pull a _scene _in the supermarket.

Fuck. Fuck his life— What if he looks afraid? What if all the people going about their day can see—? Jesus. _Keep it together Hargrove_. He just hopes like hell he doesn’t look too much like he’s wondering what Neil will do when he snaps and how he’s gonna get Max out of there, because that’s what he’s thinking.

Every now and then a line of fire burns across his flesh— his face usually, right across the bridge of his nose. **_Keep it together Hargrove_. **

Somehow he manages not to completely lose his shit and turn into a many legged fucking _monstrosity_, but it’s hard and he hates it, hates everything to do with his dad, hates the way the man makes him feel _sick_, and by the time Susan’s done he’s about ready to grab Max and run, but instead he grabs most of the groceries and starts marching them out to the car—

And there’s Tommy fucking _H_, getting out of a black benz, face still looking a bit fucked up. The guy freezes when he spots him, going even paler behind those freckles. A moment later Carol is climbing out of the car, looking at him just as warily as her fucking boyfriend.

It’s a standoff then. Them staring at him, him— well, ok, _maybe_ he’s glaring back, but fuck. He _hates_ that guy. Hates him.

Just _looking_ at him is making his ugly fucking _voice_ echo in his head, “—_his knees for—”_ is making his imagination conjure up all sorts of shit that makes him want to punch the whole _universe _in the throat.

Just thinking about it, picturing Wheeler and Byers _sharing_ Steve, makes him—

Fuck. He could _kill_ Tommy H. for ever putting the idea in his head.

‘You gonna go over there and beat his head in or can we leave?’ Max whines at his elbow.

‘What?’ he snaps.

‘You look—’ her nose wrinkles up. ‘What did that guy even _do_ to you to make you look at him like that? You look like _old Billy_— maybe not even old Billy. Maybe like some new and unimproved _psycho _version of you.’

He glances at her. She looks kind of worried. _Shit_. He turns away from Tommy H. and Carol and focusses on getting to the car, saying softly, half hoping she won’t hear, ‘He was talking shit about Steve.’

‘_Oh_,’ she says, scurrying to catch up and help him load the groceries into the boot. ‘That _dick_. You really should skip out on the pool and come help today— Steve will be there and you haven’t hung out with him in _way too long_. I think he misses you.’

‘Did he say that?’ slips out before he can catch it.

A little pause. ‘No—‘ something sinks in his chest, fluttering back upwards when she adds, ‘—but he’s always very interested when I talk about you. And sometimes I think he looks _sad_.’

_Sad_.

Steve is not supposed to look _sad_.

Before he can ask for more details about Steve’s possible sorrow Neil and Susan reach the car. Her face cold and remote. His fucking _murderous_.

Max mutters something underneath her breath and stomps over to the car, slamming the door after she climbs in. He follows, depositing the groceries in the back before climbing in the other side. Susan goes to get in the driver’s side— and she’s not a great driver, but her behind the wheel is a million times better for his blood pressure than— his dad stops her.

A frosty little argument ensues, spoken in whispers neither he nor Max can hear from inside the car, and then _Neil_ climbs into the driver’s seat and Susan gets into the passenger seat, slamming her own door behind her.

For a moment he doesn’t think he can do it. Everything gets real _slow_, his body, those lines, those _scars_ start _burning_, and it even seems like a good idea, how fucked is that? A _good idea_ to turn into a fucking _monster_ and go tearing out of the car and far, far a-fucking-way from his dad.

A small, warm, _strong_ weight lands on his arm. He blinks open eyes he didn’t know were shut, glances at Max to see her giving him a look of—

It’s not _pity_, and that makes it ok. Sympathy he thinks.

He can do this. He can—

He just _keeps breathing_ as his dad speeds recklessly through the streets towards home, focussing on Max’s hand on his arm, on _anything_ other than the fact they’re all in Neil’s power right now.

It’s such a fucking _relief_ to get away after helping Susan unload the groceries, to pack Max and himself into his baby and speed off in the direction of the new Byers place. They don’t say anything. He doesn’t know about her but he feels like he’s been awake for three days or something, just lived through some great battle, is still alive when the dust is settling and has no idea what to do with himself.

Fuck. This shit with Susan and Neil better fucking _resolve_ itself or things are going to get _messy_.

When he pulls up in front of the Byers’ house he turns off the car, glancing over at her to say, ‘See if you can stay the night or something. I don’t think either of us needs to be home right now.’

She thinks for a moment, frowning. ‘She’ll be ok, won’t she? My mom?’ He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know _what will happen_. After a moment she adds, ‘I guess you don’t know any more than I do. God. I _hate_ your dad.’

‘Yeah—’ he sighs. No point saying it though, really. It doesn’t change anything—

Though maybe it’s enough to have someone who understands how he feels. Who _knows_.

She stops with her hand on the door, giving him another one of her _looks, _‘I’ll say hello to Steve for you, yeah?’

He hesitates— ‘Yeah.’ Wow. That came out kinda— _Weak_.

She nods and gets out, trotting off towards the front door while he watches to make sure she gets inside safe. It really does seem like it could be a nice house, this one. He can imagine El and little Byers hanging out in the garden when it’s fixed up— and there seems to be plenty of room out the back— and thinking about it gives him none of that dread he’s used to feeling if he thinks of the Byers place.

Probably just because of what he did to Steve in their old house.

Jesus—

_He really wishes he never did that_.

—

He— It’s like being struck by lightning. The door swings open before she can lift a hand to ring the bell, and he’s up and out of the car before his mind consciously acknowledges what he’s seeing.

He can hear her scream for him, Max, see Steve reeling at the sound— _Steve_. It’s like his heart is beating with the other guy’s name as his legs eat up the space between them, as he pushes Robin and bigger Byers out of the way to take the brunet’s weight.


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For Billy's general Billy-ness, homophobic language, misogynistic language, mentions of domestic violence, opioid use, please let me know if I missed any.
> 
> Here's the next bit! I hope you're all doing well, or as well as any of us a re doing right now. Thank you all so much for reading, and for they comments and kudos!

Steve wilts against him, barely half-conscious. Is he hurt? Is he— his hand goes to the brunet’s head, looking for an injury, looking for a _reason_. Nothing. Furious, the words ‘What the fuck happened?’ snarl out of his mouth.

Everyone tries to answer at once, but since they’re making _no fucking sense_ they’re no fucking _help_. ‘_Did you get bigger?_’ Steve breathes against his neck and that’s— That’s _something_.

It almost makes him miss what El’s saying, her telling him her powers are back and she somehow hurt Steve. He can’t believe it— _El hurt Steve_. Subconsciously he tightens his grip, just a little, on the brunet.

She doesn’t look like she meant it. She looks like she’s about to start crying, has been crying— _Shit_. He’s about to say something to reassure her, but Steve’s insisting he make sure she knows it’s not her fault, because of course he is, Steve’s such a _good guy_. ‘Of course it’s not her fucking _fault_,’ he snaps, eying everyone in case he has to correct any stupidity. As he does he feels Steve relax against him—

Jesus.

Just—

—

The moment is ruined when Robin decides she’s got the right to be driving Steve home, and ruined further when he tries to reason with her regarding the fact that he’s the only one in sight even remotely strong enough to help the brunet get there and she tells him _Richie Lewis_ is hanging around the Harrington house.

He knows that name. _Remembers _that name— Tommy fucking H’s ugly little voice wheedling about the guy, making it sound like— Making it sound like _something_ that’s for sure. Not the kind of something he wants Steve anywhere near. Then to be told this _Richie Lewis_ is doing yard work for Steve’s dad— _pisses him off_.

Pisses him off further that Robin’s got a point about how he’ll get back if he drives Steve home in the beemer. ‘_I’ll walk_,’ he snaps, hoping he doesn’t sound anywhere as— whatever it is— as he feels.

Fuck them— or at least the not El, not little Byers— also, not Mrs Byers— them. He starts off towards the burgundy car, taking Steve’s weight easily. Thank fuck for his fucking unnatural muscles, yeah.

Jesus Steve smells _good_, that same cologne as always, warm and sweet and dry and welcoming. He wishes it was just the two of them, none of this fucking _squawking_ from the peanut gallery—

Fucking _Robin_. She doesn’t let up. Jesus Christ. Arguing with him about her right to drive _“Stevie”_ home— that pisses him off too, right now. Why isn’t _he _allowed to call the brunet that?— He reminds himself that it wasn’t that long ago he was calling the guy _Harrington_.

_Then_ she sticks her Goddamn hand in the guy’s Goddamn pocket.

Fuck.

Ok, to get his keys, but—

—

Fuck.

_She’s a dyke. She’s a dyke_, he reminds himself. But what if she isn’t? What if she’s actually—

No. No. That was a quick in and out, no lingering to feel Steve up. Still, it makes him a bit more _vicious_ with her when they resume their argument about exactly who is going to be driving Steve home. _Him_, of course. Except she has the keys— and then she’s going on about how he doesn’t even need to come with them.

_As if_.

Steve lets out this pained little whine, cringing against him, and he’s just about to snarl at Robin for being unreasonable and not taking her friend’s needs into consideration when suddenly Max is there, snatching the keys and acting like she has the right to tell people what to do. Like _hell_ is he just getting Steve in the car and letting Robin drive away with him.

He discovers that one unfortunate side effect of their increasing whatever it is lately, _closeness_, is that she’s not scared of him anymore. No amount of snarling and calling her _Maxine_ and insisting that he be the one to take Steve home seems to even _dent_ her confidence. Rolling her eyes she adds, ‘Follow them in your car, that way you can get to the pool after you’ve helped him inside. Ok?’

It’s a good plan. He does not want it to be a good plan.

Making sure everyone knows exactly how _displeased_ he is that they all seem to think they know better than him when it comes to Steve he gets the car door open and starts the process of easing the brunet inside.

Fuck. He looks _terrible_. Pale and tense— he can almost _feel_ the pain radiating off the guy. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck— What if this is serious?

‘You’ll be ok,’ he tells Steve, not sure he really believes it. ‘Fuck, you’re gonna get yourself knocked silly one day and then where’ll we be?’ The thought makes lines of fire flash across his face. _No._ Steve will be fine— it’s just a headache. His mom used to get migraines and she’d get like this—

Used to piss off his dad so much. Her not able to do what he wanted when he wanted her to because lights/noise/motion might make her vomit.

He pushes away the feelings thinking about it give him, focussing on Steve, leaning over the brunet to fasten the guy’s seatbelt. He’s warm. Jesus he smells _good_—

‘You will make sure El knows it’s not her fault?’ Steve says, squinting at him painfully.

‘_Steve_,’ It’s exasperating. Why did no one tell him what a good guy Steve is when he first came to town? Jesus. So _sweet_. Fucking _migraine_ or whatever and he’s still— ‘Keep your eyes shut. _Rest_. You’ll be fine. Don’t worry about anyone else, alright? _Jesus_.’

Wow, their faces are really close right now, he could just—

_No_. That would be—

Yeah.

He retreats, and turns to face the amassed hoard of shitty kids, Robin, Byers and Wheeler Sr., and Mrs Byers. Shit. El looks so _unhappy_—

He does as the brunet asked as he shuts the car door, making sure the girl knows it was an accident, knows _Steve_ knows it was an accident, then—

Well. Robin’s in the driver’s seat of the beemer so he’d better—

A lingering glance at Steve huddled up in the backseat of the car before he stalks off to his baby. Max scurries to his side. ‘He’ll be fine,’ she says, almost convincingly. He glances at her. ‘He’ll be _fine_,’ she repeats. ‘Steve’s tough. He’ll be fine.’

‘He better be,’ he snaps. If he’s not he’ll—

He has no idea. Go on a monstrous _rampage_ probably and get shot or captured by the military. Ha ha fucking _ha_.

She grabs his arm, he glances at her— she looks so _serious_. So grown up. Fuck, she is growing up. So fast too— ‘_He’ll be fine_,’ she repeats.

He nods, short and sharp, then climbs into his baby and starts her up, all but tailgating the beemer all the way to the Harrington house. Hah, no truck out the front. Seems he was right and Richie fucking _Lewis_ has fucked off already.

What was she going to do if he hadn’t come too? No way is she strong enough on her own to get Steve anywhere without them both getting hurt when she and big Byers couldn’t even manage it together. Especially since Steve’s out of it, fast asleep by the time he stalks over to the beemer to help Robin assess the situation.

The brunet doesn’t even stir when they get the back door of the car open— which would be worrying, but his breathing is even and he’s not pale or anything, just seems to be asleep. He and Robin glance at each other and then back at Steve.

‘How is he?’ he asks her.

She sighs. ‘He fell asleep pretty quickly. I think he has one hell of a headache.’

He glances at the house, ‘There’s a lot of stairs in there.’

She nods ‘Maybe if we both hold him up—’

‘I can carry him,’ he tells her, and then, ‘_I can_,’ at her mildly disbelieving look.

‘He is not short,’ she points out. ‘Not to offend your delicate masculinity, but he’s actually, you know, _taller than you_.’

‘So what?’ he snaps. ‘I’m _strong_.’

A pause, and then. ‘Actually, yeah. I can see that. Wow, have you been doing anything other than working out all this time you’ve been MIA?’

He ignores her, leaning into the car over Steve and unbuckling the brunet’s seatbelt— feeling the guy’s breath waft against his face— fucking pretty coral lips and oh God. Yeah. Keep it together, he’s _unconscious_, don’t be a fucking sleaze.

Jesus Christ. _Get the poor guy inside so he can rest properly._ He hesitates— Ok. Yeah, he was touching Steve before, yeah? It’s all fine. Carefully he gets a grip on the brunet and lifts him out of the car, steadying him on his feet when he wakes and startles and flails weakly a bit before the guy gives up and just leans against him. He glances at Robin, ‘Yeah. I don’t think he’s going to be able to make it up all those stairs— Steve? Steve, you with me?’

‘Billy?’ soft, sleep roughened little voice. Fuck. Ok. Focus on the business at hand. How should he go about carrying the guy? Seems kind of— _something_ to carry him into the house like a new bride. Fireman carry’s probably less dubious.

‘If I sling you over my shoulder—?’

‘I’ll puke down your back,’ the guy says, sounding comfortingly lucid— if in a whole lot of pain.

Hah. ‘Ok. Bridal style it is—’ he says readjusting his grip on the brunet and swinging him back into his arms. Jesus he has gotten _strong_. Steve’s not a small guy— not huge, not _built_, but he’s not short and there’s a decent amount of muscle there. Not so much _lifting_ muscle as _swimming_ and maybe _running _muscle— actually, he feels a bit thin. A bit bony around narrow hips and ribs and those wide shoulders. Has the brunet been eating enough?

_Now is not the time_.

God he smells good.

Robin rushes to unlock the front door as he carries Steve towards the house, then inside— hah. He’s almost missed this place. Hah. _It smells the same_. Like the kids and like Steve but not like anyone else. No strangers’ perfumes or colognes. A deep purr of something satisfied starts up in his chest.

Partway up the stairs Robin starts telling him where Steve’s room is, and he enjoys the way she squawks when he tells her he already knows where it is. He doesn’t add that he’s been in there before. That he was naked. That he spent the night in Steve’s _bed_—

Not that. You know. _But_—

Steve saw his dick. Steve’s body _touched it_—

—

Jesus he has become one hell of a creep sometime he wasn’t looking, yeah?

Whatever he might feel about that, what it means about him, he’s soon more preoccupied by the fact the brunet doesn’t seem to be doing so good on the bumpy ride up the stairs. ‘You gonna puke Steve?’ He tries to readjust his hold, to be _gentler_, smoother on the climb.

‘Hopefully _not_,’ the brunet whimpers, worryingly, but then he’s stepping onto the landing so that should be better.

Before being taken to his room Steve wants to stop at his mom’s, which means he ends up standing in the most _Godawful_ creepy bedroom he thinks he’s ever been in, while Robin fishes through a drawer full of loose bullets and pill bottles for the one housing the _Percocet_.

There is no window. No decoration. Everything is _white_. There’s barely any furniture aside from a fucking _huge _gun safe and a bed that looks like something from an _institution_— not a wrinkle, not a crease, pin-perfect _Hospital corners_— a _thick stack_ of journals and xeroxed articles on the bedside tables with titles he can barely understand— things about _psychometry _and _neural processing_ and _heritability _and _recessive traits _and _genomes_ and _DNA_ and _evolution_ and _selective processes _and arguments about _eugenics_ in amongst the easier to understand article titles about _learning disabilities_ and _dyslexia_— And it all _stinks_ of stale cigarettes and strident, over-applied perfume, and—

It is a relief to get out of there. What the fuck?

_What the fuck?_

** _How is that Steve’s mom’s room?_ **

It makes Steve’s ugly bedroom appear almost _homely_.

He lays the brunet down carefully on the bed feeling kind of— He _is _trying to keep his head in the here and now and not, you know, completely lose his fucking shit— and is does help that Steve’s so obviously in pain— but the whole thing is real _intimate_ and he knows, just fucking _knows_ that he’s gonna end up with his hand on his dick sometime later thinking about how this could go if things were different.

Wow he really is a creep—

Not only is he a creep but _holy hell _how did he manage to avoid acknowledging his amazing lack of straightness before now? Now he has it’s like whatever level of fag— _fuck_. That really is a nasty word, isn’t it? He doesn’t want it applied to him, even by _himself_, so he’s really gotta stop using it all together.

Yeah. Anyway. The stuff with Steve seems to have just supercharged his underlying _homosexual_ tendencies. _Bisexual_. But homosexual in Steve’s case. Guy’s not a chick—

The guy in question seems to be trying to toe off his shoe to get comfortable and he’s just standing there, being a fucking _pervert_. He catches Steve’s foot, carefully removing the sneaker, then grabs Steve’s other foot and does the same and then he’s thinking about if there’s a way to make the brunet any more comfortable when his eyes catch on denim and he thinks _jeans_ and it feels like his head’s going to blow off.

Jeans.

_Steve’s dick_.

**_Jesus_**.

He thinks he says something, he thinks Steve replies, but none of it makes it through the rush of blood in his ears. It’s like the sea. For a moment he’s on the beach and his mom’s there but then he’s back and the backs of his hands are brushing the soft, hairy skin of Steve’s belly as he undoes the guy’s fly, as he starts to pull the denim down—

He really is a _sexy little piece_. Nice legs. Firm muscles— he can’t help himself. He can’t _stop_ himself. He lets himself _touch_, just a little, as he gets the jeans down, as he _exposes_ all that skin to his own eyes— Steve makes a tiny noise, so small he doesn’t even know if the brunet realises it, and his eyes flicker to Steve’s face and—

A throat clears. A throat clears and he jumps away, scalded, hand in the fucking _cookie jar_. Robin. Of-fucking-_course_.

If it wasn’t for— but— you see— yeah— _anyway_, he lets her shoo him out of the room, Steve’s body warmth lingering in the flesh of his palms.

She marches him out of the house and he follows, _dazed_, blood still rushing, body _tingling_, and he almost drifts on past her to his baby but she grabs him by the upper arm and drags him to a stop. ‘What the fuck—?’ he begins— He can’t think. He can’t stop right now. He has to—

‘You know you’re a _dick_, right?’ she snaps at him. ‘I was seriously thinking I’d just let it go— for Stevie— but then you just—’ she sighs, giving him a filthy look. ‘Where _the fuck_ have you been? Why have you been avoiding him? He might not say anything but I _know_ it upset him. _You_ upset him.’

It gets his attention enough to snap ‘I wasn’t _avoiding him_’ even though he totally was. Not because of _Steve_ though. God, does she have to do this _right now_.

Everything’s golden and glowing and perfect and she’s just. She’s _ruining it_.

‘Yeah, _right_,’ she actually rolls her eyes at him. ‘Did you finally actually get sick of hanging out with the _loser brigade_?’

‘He is _not_ a loser,’ he reiterates. ‘Jesus, let it _go_ Robin, before I really start to think you think _you’re_ better than him.’

‘Don’t fucking _deflect_,’ she hisses at him, and he finds himself stepping back instinctively. It’s— Wow, ok. Out of character. Yeah. ‘He’s really been _hurting_,’ she continues with, ‘And I know part of it’s _my fault_, but most of it’s _yours_.’

‘What do you mean _hurting?_’ he snarls. No. Steve’s been fine. Steve’s always fine. Steve’s a little golden ray of sunshine in this fucked up, shitty world. He glares at her ‘_What did you do?_’

She makes a high, strangled sound of frustration then slumps, looking at him with something like defeat. ‘I fucked up,’ she says, flatly. ‘I said something stupid— _stupidly_—’ she tries again, ‘I said something in a really stupid way and I know he misinterpreted it and now I can’t convince him I didn’t mean what he thinks I meant because he doesn’t want to talk about it.’

He stares at her. ‘That sounds real fucking stupid. _Apologize to him_, Jesus.’

‘It’s not that _simple_,’ she snaps. ‘Anyway, as I said, he would not be at all as upset as he is if it wasn’t for you—’ _what does that even **mean**? _Great, now she’s _looking_ at him. She sighs, ‘You do know I want to think better of you, don’t you? Then you go do things like this—’

_Patronizing little bitch_ part of him hisses, even though he knows Steve would hate him for the thought— not just Steve, but _Max_. Jesus, it’s ok to hate a chick and say he hates her, but Max hates it when _anyone_ with a dick calls a girl a _bitch_ and is quite happy to bitch herself blue in the face about it—

Then her words really sink in. ‘You keep saying I’ve done something to hurt him, but I’ve not been around, I’ve not seen him or spoken to him in—’ he trails off. Trying to count the days and cringing as the number gets higher.

‘_Exactly_,’ she snaps. ‘You _matter to him_—’

‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’ What’s she insinuating? What does she _know_—

He bites down the panic. Fuck. _NO_. What does it matter what a dyke like her knows? What anyone knows? It’s ok. It’s fine. He’s fine. _No one_ is going to make him ashamed of who he is, swear to God.

He thinks maybe she mutters _Goddammit_ under her breath before her expression firms up and she _tells _him, ‘I can’t believe I’m about to say this, to _you_ of all people, but at this point I don’t think I even care if you hit me or something. _Pull your head out of your ass and treat him better, or else I’ll make sure he **never** wants to talk to you again_.’

‘I’m not going to _hit you_,’ he snaps, outraged. What the fuck gave her _that idea_.

‘Oh my God I do not care!’ she— not quite _shrieks_, but not far off— in frustration. ‘Stop being a dick to Steve. Stop _avoiding_ him— or I’ll make your life a _living hell_.’ At that she whirls around and marches herself back into the house, slamming the front door behind herself.

He stares after her for a moment, mind skittering away from the idea of Steve being _hurt_, Steve being hurt because of _him_, then shakes it all off, heads back to his baby while fishing a Gauloise out of his pocket and lighting up.

Behind the wheel he pauses for a moment, staring blankly at nothing, at the street, at the houses, before he starts the car and pulls away from the curb, heading out, out, out into the forest instead of into town and to the pool like he’s supposed to.

Alone, where he’s parked before, he stops the car and stares at nothing for a moment before it all comes rushing back and he’s spat in his palm and got that hand down his jeans and is tugging on his dick hard and fast. In his memory he sees Steve, Steve on the bed, the way the brunet had _looked_ at him—

_Fuuuckkkk—_

After wiping up with his spare t-shirt he sits and smokes for a while, still not letting himself think about what hurting Steve means when he’s got _nicer_ things to think about. Anyway, he can make it up. He _can_. He can be real _sweet_ when he wants to.

And he wants to. Boy does he want to—

See, he’s not a vain man— fuck that. Of course he’s a vain man. How can he not be a vain man when everyone’s been telling him how good looking he is his whole life—? Even when he was a _kid_. _Billy’s so cute, Billy’s such a handsome little man, oh look at him he looks just like a _fucking_ **angel**._ But there’s vain and there’s _vain_. The kind of vain that’s baseless— _that’s_ the kind of vain he’s not.

He’s damn good looking and he knows it, and he _knows_ what people look like when they agree, when they _want_ him, and the way Steve was looking at him— and it’s not just the headache, he’s sure of it. He’s helped guys to bed before when they were fucked up— not many and not like _that_, but some— like when Jay ran his bike into that streetlight that time staring at that girl’s tits and knocked himself stupid. He knows what guys that don’t want to fuck him— and that _he _doesn’t want to fuck either— look like when he’s getting their jeans off and that’s _not_ the way Steve was looking at him.

Steve was looking at him like—

Hah. Hah ha ha ha _yes_. Steve _wants_ him. Steve _is_, at least a little, _gay_ after all. He wasn’t totally fucking _deluded_. Steve wants him and he wants Steve and—

And—

He could _have_ Steve.

Not just— Like, fucking him would be totally fucking _amazing_— but he could, actually, probably, really _date_ Steve. Like Steve was his girlfriend— fuck. No, _boyfriend_. Take him out somewhere nice, buy him something nice, be _real_ nice and at the end of the night maybe Steve would be real _nice_ in return.

Yeah—

Hah—

Jesus _Christ_ he _wants_ it enough he actually thinks he’ll go for it.

How the fuck do you ask out a guy though?

_Fuck that_, how the hell do you even ask out someone you’re serious about?

Ok. No. The _guy_ thing might really be an issue, because a bunch of flowers and a charming smile doesn’t sound quite right. Object of his— _whatever he feels_— or not— fucking good cook, and good with kids as well— but Steve is still a guy. A _man_.

What? A fucking six-pack and a hand on his dick—?

But that doesn’t seem very _Steve_. Steve may be a guy but he’s a different _type _of guy. All neat and preppie and shit— _Good manners_. Considerate—

And suddenly all the fizz is going out of the world because Steve is a _good person_ and deserves better than the shit the universe will rain on him if they did start dating.

After who-knows-how-long of sitting resting his head on his hands on the wheel he sits up, starts the car, heads to the pool. He’s late. He’s probably in a whole shitload of trouble.

He doesn’t _care_.

—


End file.
